


Ifiiiii iiil I It 



• !Mi...|.)Ui. 





Book 



Gop)Ti^htN° 




COPYHieilT DEPOSIT 



Alpine Flora of the Canadian Rocky 
Mountains. 

By Stewardson Brown. Illustrated by Mrs. 
Charles Schaffer (Mary T. S. Schaffer.) 



Old Indian Trails. 

Incidents of Camp and Trail Life Covering 
Two Years' Exploration through the Rocky 
Mountains of Canada. 
By Mary T. S. Schaffer. 




Nibs and His Mistress 



Old Indian Trails 

Incidents of Gamp and Trail Life, Covering Two 

Years' Exploration through the Rocky 

Mountains of Canada 



■■^ 



By 

Mary T. S. SchafFer 



i/ 



Author of, in Collaboration with Stewardson Brown, 
"Alpine Flora of the Canadian Rockies," etc. 



With 100 Illustrations from Photographs by the Author 
and by Mary W. Adams, and a Map - 



New York^ — G. P. Putnam's Sons — London 

XLbe IFcntcfterbocher iprcss 
1911 






Copyright, igii 

BY 

MARY T. S. SCHAFFER 



Ube *nfcl!Cibocl!Cv ipvess, HAcw HJorl! 



gCl.A2Sl)S33^ 



MARY 

who with me followed the 

"Old Indian Trails," but 

who has now gone on the 

Long Trail alone 



WHY AND WHEREFORE 

DURING the two summers of the herein de- 
scribed little journeys among the Canadian 
Rocky Mountains, there had never been a thought 
that the daily happenings of our ordinary camp- 
life would ever be heard of beyond the diary, the 
family, the few partial friends. 

However, when the cold breath of the mountain- 
tops blew down upon us, and warned us that the 
early winters were not far away, that the camping 
days were almost done for the year, when we 
reluctantly turned our backs upon the sweet 
mountain air, the camp-fire, the freedom, dis- 
carded the much loved buckskins and hob-nailed 
shoes for the trappings dictated by the Delineator, 
we emerged into the world — the better known 
world — sure of the envy of all listeners. 

Did they listen? No, scarce one. With all 
the pigments we might use, the numbers were 
few who "enthused." Those who needed "en- 
thusing, " they with aches and pains, with sorrows 
and troubles, listened the least, or looked upon 
our mountain world as but a place of privation 
and petty annoyances. 



vi Why and Wherefore 

For them I have written the following pages, 
tried to bring to them the fresh air and sunshine, 
the snowy mountains, the softly flowing rivers, — 
the healers for every ill. Will they close their 
eyes and shake their heads? Not all, I trust. 

To you who are weary both in body and soul, 
I write the message: "Go! I hand you the key 
to one of the fairest of all God's many gardens. 
Go! Peace and health are there, and happiness 
for him who will search." 



CONTENTS 
EXPEDITION OF 1907 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. An Explanation . . . . i 

II. Trouble AT THE Start — Bow Valley. 17 

III. Trailing the North Fork . . 41 

IV. Through Unmapped Country . . 54 
V. On the Search of Fortress Lake , 63 

VI. To THE Base of Mount Columbia . 75 

VII. Back on the Old Familiar Trail . 91 

VIII. Nashan Valley, Thompson Pass, the 

IcE-FiELDs OF Mount Columbia . 109 

IX. Off to the Brazeau Country . .133 

X. Jonas Pass and a Pair of Snow-Blind 

Eyes ...... 150 

XI. On the Golden Plains of the Sas- 
katchewan . . . . .164 

XII. The Valley of the Lakes, then Back 

TO Civilisation . . . .185 



viii Contents 

PAGE 

EXPEDITION OF 1908 

I. The Start ..... 203 

11. Back on Our Old Playground — the 

North Fork . . . .217 

III. The Search for the Unmapped Lake 229 

IV. A Maiden Voyage on the "New" 

Lake ...... 244 

V. The Tribulations of the Investi- 
gator ...... 262 

VI. The Joys of Pobokton Valley and 

THE Sun Wapta .... 282 

VII. Rock-Bluffs, Gorges, and Residents 

OF THE AtHABASKA . . . 302 

VIII. Bound for Mount Robson . . 326 

IX. The Tete Jaune Cache . . . 340 

X. Going Home ..... 353 

Index ........ 361 



ILLUSTRATIONS 
EXPEDITION OF 1907 



Nibs and His Mistress 



Frontispiece 



Mount Coleman from Pinto Pass . . i 

"Chief" . 7 

"K." Preparing Bannock for Supper . . 9 

"4TH of July" Camp ..... 17 

Crow-Foot Glacier ..... 27 

Bow Lake ....... 29 

The Upper Wild-Fowl Lake in the Early 

Morning ...... 33 

Pyramid Peak and Bear Creek ... 35 

"Tom" Wilson, the "Oldest Inhabitant" 

of the Kootenai Plains • • • 37 

Our Horses on the Shore of Nashan Lake 41 

Under the Shadow of Mount Wilson . 42 

"The North Fork, along Whose Ragged 

Edge We Trailed for Miles" . . 45 



X Illustrations 



Watchman's Peak and Lake Nashan 
Mount Bryce from Tho:\ipson Pass 
Columbia Ice-Fields . 
Mount Lyell from Nashan River 
In the Brazeau Valley 



PAGE 



Panther Falls on the North Fork . , 51 

A Bad Stretch of Timber .... 54 

The Endless Chain ..... 59 

First Glimpse of the Mighty Athabaska . 61 

Fortress Lake ...... 63 

Fortress Mountain, a Towering Rocky 

Peak ....... 66 

Fire on the Endless Chain ... 71 

Mount Columbia Valley — or South Branch 

OF THE Chaba • ■ • • • 75 

Mount Columbia — "An Example of Exquis- 
ite Symmetry" ..... 83 

Mount Forbes from the Junction of Bear 

Creek and the Saskatchewan River . 91 

Nashan Lake from Thompson Pass . .109 

"Mount Alexandra and Gable Peak with 
Frozen Rivers Hanging from Summit 
TO Base" ..... 



Ill 
121 

125 
127 

131 
133 



Illustrations xi 



Ploughing through the Snow in Nigel Pass 135 



Nigel Pass and Peak . . . . 
Brazeau Lake and Brazeau Mountain 
"It Was certainly a Dreary Scene" . 
Looking up the Cataract Pass . 
Summit of Jonas Pass . . . . 



136 
141 
146 
150 
151 



Across Cataract Pass with Snow-Blind 

Eyes -157 

"Two Tepees Nestled among the Trees" 164 

The Beacon in Cataract Valley , . 165 

"A Smudge, Where Our Horses Were soon 

AT Peace in the Choking Smoke" . .167 

Kadoona Mountain at the Western Limi- 
tation of the Kootenai Plains . .172 

Lake Brazeau, Looking South . . -174 

The Indian Madonna . . . . .177 

Sampson Beaver, His Squaw, and Little 

Frances Louise . . . . .181 

Sampson's Map . . . . . .183 

Mount Mummery . . . . .185 

Mount Forbes from the Middle Fork of the 

Saskatchewan . . . . .189 



xii Illustrations 

PAGE 

EXPEDITION OF 1908 

Our Outfit ...... 203 

"Mr. Muggins" ...... 210 

Trollius Albiflorus . . . . .212 

Back on Our Old Playground — the North 

Fork . . . . . . .217 

Where Trail-Life Is Hard. On the "Big 

Hill" ....... 221 

Mount Attiabaska from the Base of Wilcox 

Peak 223 

Maligne Pass ...... 229 

First Sight of Maligne Lake from Mount 

Unwin ....... 241 

The Maiden Voyage on Lake Maligne . 244 

Summit of Iio\vsE Pass .... 247 

A Camp Dinner 253 

Mount Mary Vaux at the Head of jMaligne 

Lake 255 

A Stoney Indian's Tepee Nestled among the 

Poplars on the Kooti:nai Plains . . 257 

One of Our Summi:r Homes . . . 259 



Illustrations xiii 

PAGE 

Swimming the Horses at the Mouth of 

Maligne Lake ..... 262 

"When I Saw the Last of those Four Men I 

Knew What was Going to Happen" . 279 

PoBOKTON Pass ...... 282 

Mount Hardisty, near the Athabaska Gorge 291 

Mount Hooker ...... 292 

Committee's Punch-Bowl at the Source of 

THE Whirlpool River .... 295 

Athabaska River, Looking up the Miette 

Valley toward Yellowhead Pass . 302 

A Neat Horse-Stunt on the Athabaska . 305 

Site of Henry House on the Athabaska 

River . . . . . . .310 

Crossing the Athabaska River in the 

Dug-Outs . . . . . .321 

Mount Robson from Grand Forks . . 326 

A specially Bad Corner on the Miette . 329 

Mount Robson ...... 337 

On the Frazer ...... 339 

Frazer River at the Tete Jaune Cache . 342 

The City of Tete Jaune Cache in 1908 . 344 



xiv Illustrations 

PAGE 

"As I Bent over . . . Came an Indian in 

His Cottonwood Canoe" . . . 346 

Going Home 353 

Where Old Friends Part .... 360 



EXPEDITION OF 1907 






Mount Coleman from Pinto Pass 



OLD INDIAN TRAILS 



CHAPTER I 



AN EXPLANATION 



TWENTY years ago, ninety -nine per cent, 
of the tourists to the section of the 
Rockies of Canada mentioned in these pages, 
flitted across the country as bees across a 
flower-garden, and were gone. 

There were comparatively few of them, and 
but a small modicum of enthusiasm distribu- 
ted among them. Banff contained a hostlery 
which swallowed all who came and left few 



2 Old Indian Trails 

visible (so small was the number) ; Lake 
Louise boasted no hotel at all, — we slept in 
tents in '93, and from our door looked out 
upon that magnificent scene with chattering 
teeth and shivering bodies, and vowed never 
again to camp in the Canadian Rockies; 
Field, with her splendid drives and trails and 
Yoho Valley to-day, was an insignificant 
divisional point and eating station; Glacier, a 
tiny picturesque chalet cuddled close to the 
railroad track as though to shield her from 
the dark forests behind her, was full to the 
brim if so many as a dozen stopped off to 
view the one sight of those days, — the Great 
Glacier. At that time no one dreamed of the 
fascinating caves only seven miles away, 
hidden and unknown in an even more fasci- 
nating valley. 

However, over an infinitesimally few those 
mountains had throwm a glamour and a spell 
so persistent and so strong, that with the first 
spring days, no matter where they be, warm 
breezes brought the call,- — " Come back, come 
back to the blue hills of the Rockies!" 

And we went ; went year by year ; watched 
the little chalets grow, watched the pushing 
of the trails into new points of interest, 
watched with veiled and envious eyes our 



An Explanation 3 

secret haunts laid bare to all who came. 
And they did come, fast and furious! Steam 
heat and hot and cold water had done their 
work. The little tents on the shores of Lake 
Louise, with their balsam-bough beds and an 
atmosphere reeking with health and strength 
to those weary with the city's life, were 
banished, and only found again by the de- 
termined few who had heard of the recently 
discovered Moraine Lake, Lakes O'Hara and 
McArthur, and Ptarmigan and Yoho Valleys. 
Point by point we fled to them all, each one 
of them a stronghold at civilisation's limits, 
each one of them a kindergarten of the 
at-first-despised camping life. In them we 
learned the secret of comfort, content, and 
peace on very little of the world's material 
goods, learned to value at its true worth the 
great un-lonely silence of the wilderness, and 
to revel in the emancipation from frills, 
furbelows, and small follies. 

But the tide swept on. With jealous eyes 
we watched the silence slipping back, the tin 
cans and empty fruit-jars strew our sacred 
soil, the mark of the axe grow more obtrusive, 
even the trails cleared of the dehris so hard to 
master, yet so precious from the fact it must 
be mastered to succeed. 



4 Old Indian Trails 

Where next? Driven from our Eden, where 
should our tents rise again? We were grow- 
ing lost and lonesome in the great tide which 
was sweeping across our playground, and we 
longed for wider views and new untrammelled 
ways. With willing ears we listened to the 
tales brought in by the hunters and trappers, 
those men of this land who are the true 
pioneers of the country in spite of the fact that 
they have written nothing and are but little 
known. With hearts not entirely on pelts, 
they had seen and now told us of valleys of 
great beauty, of high unknown peaks, of little- 
known rivers, of un-named lakes, lying to the 
north and north-west of the country we knew 
so well,' — a fairyland, yet a land girt about 
with hardships, a land whose highway was a 
difficult trail or no trail at all. We fretted for 
the strength of man, for the way was long and 
hard, and only the tried and stalwart might 
venture where cold and heat, starvation and 
privation stalked ever at the explorer's heels. 
In meek despair we bowed our heads to the 
inevitable, to the cutting knowledge of the 
superiority of the endurance of man and 
the years slipped by. 

From the States came Allen and Wilcox, 
(men of course) , gathered their outfits together 



An Explanation 5 

and left us sitting on the railroad track fol- 
lowing them with hungry eyes as they plunged 
into the distant hills; to listen just as hungrily 
to the camp-fire tales on their return, of all 
the wonders of the more northern Rockies; 
came Stuttfield, Collie, Woolley, Outram 
(names so well known in the alpine world 
to-day), to tell again to our eager-Hstening 
ears of the vast, glorious, unexplored country 
beyond; came Fay, Thompson, and Coleman, 
— all men ! 

There are few women who do not know 
their privileges and how to use them, yet 
there are times when the horizon seems re- 
stricted, and we seemed to have reached that 
horizon, and the Hmit of all endurance,' — 
to sit with folded hands and listen calmly to 
the stories of the hills we so longed to see, the 
hills which had lured and beckoned us for 
years before this long list of men had ever set 
foot in the country. Our cups splashed over. 
Then we looked into each other's eyes and 
said: ''Why not? We can starve as well as 
they; the muskeg will be no softer for us than 
for them; the ground will be no harder to 
sleep upon; the waters no deeper to swim, 
nor the bath colder if we fall in," — so— we 
planned a trip. 



6 Old Indian Trails 

But instead of railing at our predecessors, 
we were to learn we had much for which to 
thank them. Reading the scanty literature 
which dealt with their various expeditions, we 
had absorbed one huge fundamental fact al- 
most unconsciously, viz.,' — that though this 
was a land of game,— of goat, sheep, bear, 
deer and caribou, one might pass through the 
country for days yet see no signs of wild life. 
Fish there are in plenty, yet for weeks, when 
the summer sun melts every thing meltable, 
and the rivers are clouded with silt from 
the glaciers, they will not rise to the most 
tempting bait, and the grouse disappear as 
though by magic. 

Throughout the limited literature ran this 
simple ever-present fact, — a beatitiful, but 
inhospitable land, and the cause of many an 
unfinished or abandoned expedition, and a 
hasty retreat to the land of bread-and-butter. 

Thanking our informants for their uncon- 
scious hint, we laid our plans both long and 
deep. Our initial experience of one night's 
camp on the shores of Lake Louise, when we 
had felt frozen to the bone, and had at the time 
promised ourselves never to do such a trick 
again, had been augmented by a flight of three 
days to Yoho Valley when it was n't Yoho 




\: 



\. 



%} 



"Chief" 



8 Old Indian Trails 

Valley, only a lovely unknown bit of country, 
another chilly experience at Moraine Lake, a 
pause, then a week in the Ptarmigan Valley, 
and later a sortie of five weeks in the Saskatche- 
wan country. In these trips we had gathered 
a few solid facts; surely with them we were 
more or less prepared for a whole summer in 
the country of which so little was known. 

In spite of the protests of anxious relatives 
and friends, our plans were laid for a four- 
months' trip during the summer of 1907, and 
a vow made not to return till driven back by 
the snows. 

The guide-in-chief was our most important 
factor. To whom should we more naturally 
turn than to him who had watched over us 
in the days of our camp swaddling-clothes, 
who had calculated the amount of our first 
camp-fare, given us our first lessons in camp 
comforts, and in fact our very first lessons in 
sitting astride a horse and learning to jump a 
log without being shot over the head of our 
steed? 

Three years' acquaintance had taught us his 
value, and as he did not turn us down, but 
kindly spurred us on in our undertaking, and 
cheerfully assumed the leadership, he made us 
feel we had worn a considerable amount of the 




C/2 



PM 



M 



10 Old Indian Trails 

tenderfoot from our compositions. Having 
always kept a strict account of the amount of 
food he had packed over the trails for us on 
our shorter expeditions, it became a mere 
matter of arithmetic for a longer one. If so 
many pounds of bacon lasted us seven weeks, 
how many pounds of bacon would last sixteen 
weeks?- — and so through the entire gamut of 
the food supply, — flour, baking-powder, cocoa, 
coffee, tea, sugar, dried fruits, evaporated 
potatoes, beans, rice, etc., with a week's extra 
rations thrown in for emergency. 

On him fell the entire responsibility of 
choosing and buying the best outfit of horses, 
saddlery, blankets, the hundred and one 
things needed and so apt to be forgotten, 
for in this land to which we were going there 
were no shops, only nice little opportunities 
for breaking and losing our few precious 
possessions. 

It was his care also to choose the second 
guide to accompany us, not so easy a matter 
as it looks. This fourth member of our 
party must know how to cook a bannock that 
would not send one to bad dreams after a 
hard day's travel, to fry a piece of bacon 
exactly right, to boil the rice, and make 
bean soup, all at the camp-fire; it sounds 



An Explanation ii 

simple, but try it. He must be equally skil- 
ful in adjusting the packs that there be no 
sore backs, he must have a fund of patience 
such as Job was never forced to call upon, and 
a stock of good nature that would stand any 
strain. The man, the horses, and the food, 
our Chief found them all, and here to him I 
give the credit of our success, claiming only 
for ourselves the cleverness of knowing a good 
thing when we saw it. 

It is an ''inhospitable land"; they who 
first tore the secrets from those hills have 
recorded it so; by their experiences we pro- 
fited ; the wise head at the helm steadied the 
ship and all was well. 

And so in the east, the early spring days 
went by at a snail's pace, with a constant 
discussion as to the best air-bed, the proper 
tents and their size, the most enduring shoe, 
etc., with trials and tests of condensed foods, 
ending mostly in trials. 

There are a few of these foods which are well 
worth having, and there are some of them, 
which we were profoundly thankful we had 
tried before carting across the continent. 
For instance, beware of the dried cabbage; no 
fresh air in existence will ever blow off sufficient 
of the odour to let it get safely to the mouth. 



12 Old Indian Trails 

" Granulosa" was a strongly recommended 
article to save carrying so much of that heavy 
and perishable, yet almost necessary, sub- 
stance, sugar. The label on the neat small 
bottles read: "One half oz. granulose equal 
to one ton of sugar, price $i.oo." Who 
would dream of passing such a bargain? 
Too good to be true, yet we did believe and 
were soon the proud possessors of "one ton" 
of condensed sweetness, as also of a stock of 
dried milk and dried eggs. Truth compels me 
to state that each of the three has its limita- 
tions, and to this day I wonder if that dried 
milk had ever seen a cow, or if any hen would 
acknowledge the motherhood of those dried 
eggs. To the inventor or discoverer of 
"granulose" I should like to whisper that I 
thought he had got slightly mixed in his 
arithmetic; if he had said his dollar's worth 
of "granulose" was only equal to thirty 
pounds of sugar he would have been nearer 
correct and we would not have had to eat so 
many puddings and cakes without sweetening. 
The section of country which had so long 
been our dream, lies in the Canadian Rocky 
Mountain Range, directly north of that por- 
tion which is penetrated by the Canadian 
Pacific Railway. It is bounded by latitudes 



An Explanation 13 

51°, 30' and 52° 30'; and longitudes 116° to 
118°. Our chief aim was to penetrate to 
the head waters of the Saskatchewan and 
Athabaska rivers. To be quite truthful, 
it was but an aim, an excuse, for our real 
object was to delve into the heart of an un- 
touched land, to tread where no human foot 
had trod before, to turn the unthumbed pages 
of an unread book, and to learn daily those 
secrets which dear Mother Nature is so 
willing to tell to those who seek. So the 
"Saskatchewan and Athabaska sources " were 
a little pat answer which we kept on hand for 
the invariable question, "Goodness ! what ever 
takes you two women into that wild, unknown 
region?" It seemed strange at first to think 
we must announce some settled destination, 
that the very fact of its being a wilderness 
was not enough; but we could not be blind 
to the fact that nine-tenths of our loving rela- 
tives and friends thought us crazy, and the 
other tenth listened patiently as I ruminated 
aloud: "There is no voice, however famed, 
that can attune itself to the lonely comers of 
the heart, as the sigh of the wind through the 
pines when tired eyes are closing after a day 
on the trail. There is no chorus sweeter than 
the little birds in the early northern dawn; 



14 Old Indian Trails 

and what picture can stir every artistic nerve 
more than to gaze from some deep green val- 
ley to stony crags far above, and see a band 
of mountain-sheep, in rigid statuesque pose, 
watching every move of the unknown enemy 
below? Why must so many cling to the life 
of our great cities, declaring there only may 
the heart-hunger, the artistic longings, the 
love of the beautiful be satisfied, and thus 
train themselves to believe there is nothing 
beyond the little horizon they have built for 
themselves? Why must they settle so abso- 
lutely upon the fact, that the lover of the hills 
and the wilderness drops the dainty ways and 
habits with the conventional garments and 
becomes something of coarser mould? Can 
the free air sully, can the birds teach us 
words we should not hear, can it be possible 
to see in such a summer's outing, one sight as 
painful as the daily ones of poverty, degrada- 
tion, and depravity of a great city?" 

I was so strongly impressed with this very 
idea one day, as it came unwittingly from a 
dear friend who had no idea she was "letting 
the cat out of the bag," that I cannot resist 
speaking of it. She had taken the keenest 
interest in all our wanderings, had listened by 
the hour (yes, quite true) if we would but get 



An Explanation 15 

upon our hobby, and showed a sincere pride 
in introducing us as her friends * ' the explorers ' ' 
(the true explorer had better skip this part) ; 
broad-minded and sympathetic, even her 
thoughts were more or less tinged with the 
conventional colouring. Here is her intro- 
duction: "My friend, the little explorer, 
who lives among the Rocky Mountains and 
the Indians for months at a time, far, far in 
the wilderness. You would not expect it, 
would you? She does not look like it, does 
she? She ought to look some other way, 
should she not?" And then her listeners all 
bowed and smiled, and noted the cut of my 
garments, and said it really was wonderful. 
And I could have said : "Not half so wonder- 
ful as that you do not know the joys of 
moccasins after ordinary shoes, that there is a 
place where hat-pins are not the mode, and the 
lingerie waist a dream; that there are vast 
stretches where the air is so pure, body and 
soul are purified by it, the sights so restful 
that the weariest heart finds repose." Is it 
possible in such environments, for the char- 
acter tO' coarsen, and the little womanlinesses 
to be laid aside? No, believe me, there are 
some secrets you will never learn, there are 
some joys you will never feel, there are heart 



i6 Old Indian Trails 

thrills you can never experience, till, with 
your horse you leave the world, your recog- 
nised world, and plunge into the vast unknown. 
And all the thanks you will give us will be: 
"Why did you not tell iis to go before? why 
have you been so tame with your descriptions? 
We never guessed what we should find." 
Alas! it takes what I have not, a skilled pen. 
Perhaps the subject is too great, and the pic- 
ture too vast for one small steel pen and one 
human brain to depict, — at least it is a satis- 
faction to think the fault is not my own. 




CHAPTER 11 



TROUBLE AT THE START — BOW VALLEY 



AND now with all necessary things gathered 

^^ together, with trunks packed, not with 

frills and furbelows, but with blankets and 

"glucose," air-beds and evaporated milk, with 

" Abercrombie " shoes and dried spinach, we 

were off across the continent by the first of 

June, 1907. At Winnipeg we picked up some 

highly recommended tents, made of "Egyptian 

sail-cloth," exceedingly light weight and small 

bulk, though later we found they had their 

faults, — -"but that is another story." Our 

trunks had been checked at Montreal to the 

little station of Laggan on the Canadian 
2 17 



i8 Old Indian Trails 

Pacific Railway — our point of departure into 
the mountains, and in calm faith we dropped 
down the hill to Field, to get our breath and 
bearings, and wait for the bad weather to 
clear. This seemed likely to occur at any 
moment ; for a fiercer winter than that of 1 906 
and '07 had not been known in the memory of 
the "oldest inhabitant"; the spring had been 
equally bad, and our reception was enough to 
cool even greater ardour than ours. We 
decided on June 20th as tJie latest day for 
the start; if the snows were not off the Bow 
Pass by that time, they should be, and even 
though it was so cold and chill, it was time by 
the calendar for the Saskatchewan to rise and 
on this point we meant to take no chances. 
Our entire outfit of horses and saddlery were for 
the time being in Banff, so we hied ourselves 
hither, primarily to investigate the "grub- 
pile,"' but in reality to behold the gathering 
of the new family. Why try to sketch our 
opinion? There were but two members on 
exhibition, one was "Buck," the sight of 
whom was enough to kill the most deep-seated 
case of horse-pride. Long and gaunt, with a 
hide of yellow tan, a mane and tail of black, 
dragged in from his free open life on the plains 

^ Local term for all food-stuffs. 



Trouble at the Start — Bow Valley 19 

where he had never known a care, shod under 
the bitterest protest, he was a depressing-look- 
ing beast to us who had no idea where to look 
for the best points of a trail-horse. If we had 
been guilty of speaking in an off-hand, non- 
chalant way of "our" horses we stopped right 
there, and engaged our minds with bacon and 
beans. The future, however, proved the 
homely and unpopular "Buck" to have been 
made of sterling stuff; strong and willing, he 
had but one fault, a pair of violently active 
heels. No one ever received greater respect 
behind his back than "Buck," and it soon 
became second nature to make a wide detour 
when passing him. His companions were not 
always as cautious as we, and I have never 
seen him forget a slight, or fail to punish it, 
not once but many times, by a resounding, 
sickening thud in the ribs of the offender when 
off his guard. 

From now on I shall keep before me the 
worn, thumbed, much-jeered-at diary; its 
lead-pencil-smudged pages (in many places 
nearly obliterated) are dear to the eyes of 
its owner, and it is at least a record of the 
heart-beats day by day, with all the lights and 
shadows of the hills and valleys underlying 
the grimy, once white leaves. Alas! that my 



20 Old Indian Trails 

pigments are so crude and my brushes coarse, 
the scenes are so fair and the artist so unequal 
to her task! 

As I have said previously, our plans were 
to leave civilisation on June 20th. Our 
troubles, however, began on the eighteenth, 
at the awful discovery that our most valuable 
trunk, containing bedding, clothing, and pho- 
tographic material for the expedition, was 
not at Laggan, to which point it had been 
shipped the week before. It is here that I 
start the record. 

June 20th. — The day has come but not 
as we had planned. Two days ago it was 
discovered that a precious trunk was lost, and 
the agent comfortingly told us : "It must be 
somewhere between Montreal and Vancouver, 
if it has not been shunted off to Seattle." 
This gave us at least a wide field for imagina- 
tion, and a fit of the horrors at the same time, 
as we saw a long-planned trip dissolving into 
nothingness for the want of a few necessary 
articles, while we could but gaze upon and 
admire the stony indifference of the four or 
five agents, to whom we had confided our 
troubles in all their harrowing details, yet re- 
mained so sublimely impassive. With deter- 
mination born of despair, we hastened to 



Trouble at the Start — Bow Valley 21 

Calgary and repurchased the few articles 
possible, though valuable photographic plates 
and a precious air-mattress were not to be 
replaced for love or money. 

Incidentally we poured our woes into the 
ears of the baggage-master-in-chief at Cal- 
gary, not because we really expected sym- 
pathy, but more as a safet3^-valve to our 
pent-up despair. His actions astonished us 
quite as much as those of his subordinates. 
In ten minutes reports were overhauled, and 
messages flying over the wires in every 
direction ; the trunk had passed through Cal- 
gary and the baggage-master was confi- 
dent it lay between there and its intended 
destination. In two hours that executive 
and energetic gentleman was aboard the 
west-bound train with us, and rigorously in- 
specting the baggage department of every 
little wayside station along the line to Laggan. 
At last our poor little tragedy had touched 
a railroad heart, and even were that trunk 
never found, we would have with our new and 
ill-assorted garments a comforting sense of 
sympathy from one human soul. Our new- 
found friend's kindness and energy were 
rewarded. The trunk was calmly reposing at 
the Lake Louise chalet, where proprietor, 



22 Old Indian Trails 

baggageman, teamster, and station-agent had 
all vowed it was not, and at least there 
was one cause for thankfulness, that none 
of the searchers had fallen over it and 
broken a bone, as it was found in a most 
dangerously conspicuous place. At sight of 
it, all sorrow fled, and we could have hugged 
that dirty, travel- worn object with joy, 
whose every scar was by this time a point 
of beauty. 

As for that baggage-master, he will live in 
our hearts as long as the memory of the trip 
remains. It is not time but circumstances 
which make us our friends ; this total stranger 
had stood by us in our hour of need ; through 
him the missing valuables had come to light, 
and were shortly distributed upon the backs of 
the horses. The duffel-bags fell into line, sugar 
and bacon joined hands, and with a wave of 
good-bye and a cheery au revoir from our 
new friend, we set our faces to the north and 
the fire-swept hills of the Bow Valley. A 
brand new Waterbury watch said it was high 
noon. The low clouds, laden with sleet and 
snow, intimated that it was a' ready far in the 
day, but there was emphatic reason for choos- 
ing a camp-ground far from the railroad 
track where the constant shifting of engines 



Trouble at the Start — Bow Valley 23 

was liable to bring an untimely end to some 
of our family. 

It seemed, as we wound slowly through the 
sparsely standing, burnt timber, that we had 
not left all calamity behind, but that it stalked 
beside us, hurling defiance in our faces with 
each gust of wind that swept angrily by, 
and reminded us of its power as the gaunt 
black trees crashed down about us. The new 
horses, accustomed to the open prairies, and 
nervous with the great packs they had never 
known before, erratically tore here and there 
in their endeavour to avoid the falling trees, 
and many times came very near to being 
struck. The fearful storms of the winter of 
1906 and '07 had strewn the trail with timber, 
so that between jumping logs, chopping those 
we could not jump, and ploughing through 
the most disheartening muskeg, we at last, at 
nightfall, threw off the packs on a knoll with 
muskeg everywhere. Our first camp-fire 
was built in mud, we ate in mud, slept in mud, 
and our horses stalked around in mud, nibbling 
the few spears of grass which the late cold 
spring had permitted to sprout. The new 
air-mattresses came well into play, for we felt 
a comforting certainty that if we broke 
through the muskeg we would at least float. 



24 Old Indian Trails 

It did seem a rather dreary breaking-in for a 
whole summer's camping trip and, if it was to 
continue, somewhat of a trial to both spirit 
and flesh, but tired as we were, we crawled 
into our sleeping-bags saying, "It might have 
been worse!" 

The next day was Friday. A superstitious 
person would have revelled in our woes. 
Clouds were hanging ominously low, a sickly 
sun tried hard to shine, gave it up in despair, 
and sank into oblivion. Beds were rolled up 
and tents folded, while hail struck contemptu- 
ously at us. Only too thankful to leave that 
marsh behind us, we rushed into worse 
troubles. Not a hundred yards from camp we 
plunged into the worst muskeg we had so 
far encountered. Our horses, as yet untrained, 
recognised no leader, and went down one by 
one ; heavily laden, they were helpless in that 
fearful quagmire. Buck, who was loaded with 
about two hundred pounds of bacon and flour, 
was soon under water, pack and all, and was 
only saved from a watery grave by a quick 
application of a knife to the ropes, when down 
went the cargo and up came Buck. Both 
were quickly landed on more substantial soil, 
and the bacon had had its first bath, but never 
its last. I have been asked frequently the 



Trouble at the Start — Bow Valley 25 

definition of "muskeg." The most lucid one 
I could think of would be, "get in a bad one, 
and you will see that there are no words 
adequate to its description." It is not a 
quicksand, it is not a marsh. In many- 
instances, it looks like a lovely mountain 
stream flowing between banks rank with a 
rich growth of waving grasses; again, it is a 
damp-looking spot, but still overgrown with 
the same attractive, waving green. If not yet 
thoroughly acquainted with the signs, just 
watch your horse, he will begin to snuff the 
ground beneath him, and if there is any way 
around, it is well not to force him through 
that which his own judgment tells him to 
avoid. 

The 2 1st was devoted to a distance of about 
seven miles, but it was seven miles of such 
going as one encounters only when spring 
unlocks the floods, and from that time on 
there was a most perceptible inclination on 
the part of the horses to watch and follow the 
leader, avoiding the side trips which led them 
to holes and consequent destruction. 

Bow Park was our stopping-place for the 
night, a fine camp-ground for man and beast 
after the trials of the two previous days. For 
a number of years it has been a favourite 



26 Old Indian Trails 

resting-place for hunters and the few travellers 
who have been in that vicinity, and conse- 
quently porcupines are numerous. Poor little 
fellows! With not a hard thought in their 
hearts for a soul, gentle and almost tame, they 
are the bane of the camper's existence. Like 
other animals I could mention, they are fond 
of good living, but unlike some people, if good 
things are not to be had, they will fill up with 
what is on hand. The consequence is that 
bacon and saddlery, shoes and ropes, soap 
and tent-skirts are all grist for their insatiable 
little mills. Our sleep at Bow Park was broken 
by ominous rustlings of stiff quills dragging on 
the ground, gentle squeaks, then a sortie, a dull 
thud, and the listeners knew one more poor 
creature had come to his death because of an 
ungovernable appetite. Then we would turn 
over with the virtuous thought that we had 
made pillows of our shoes, that the cameras 
were under the bed, and other valuables hung 
from the ridge-pole, so that dozens of the 
enemy could do us no serious harm. My heart 
felt a little sad the next morning, there were 
so many inanimate bodies lying about who 
would never chew straps any more, and even 
a great corner out of a slab of valuable bacon 
failed to leave me with a hard thought for 



Trouble at the Start — Bow Valley 27 

our amiable, neighbourly little enemy, the 
porcupine. 

The day was Sunday ; for the first time dur- 
ing the trip the sun rose warm and bright over 
the great crags hanging above us. Up and off 




Crow-foot Glacier 

beside the sparkling Bow River the foot-way 
improved, but the sun grew hotter and hotter, 
and we knew it meant but one thing — the 
snow-fields so long locked by the tardy winter 
would be pouring their torrents into the large 
river (the Saskatchewan) we must soon cross. 



28 Old Indian Trails 

Having visited Hector Lake the year be- 
fore, and knowing that its marshy shores would 
be well-nigh impassable at this time of year, 
we left it to its watery fastness, passed on, 
and with the brilliant sunshine bathing every- 
thing about us, came upon the Crow-foot 
Glacier, still gowned in her winter robes. Of 
peculiar formation, no one can ever fail to 
recognise her, her name fitting her perfectly. 

Slipping from the horse for a photograph, 
then back again, the outfit was once more 
struggling through the high soft meadows, 
and in a half-hour emerged on the shores of 
Bow Lake. At its lower end the slush ice 
still floated, and the horses showed but small 
desire to step into the chilled waters. The 
bank, however, was an impossibility owing to 
muskeg, while the water's edge offered a hard, 
pebbly footing, and in spite of the cold, we 
skirted the lake for half a mile, when, turning 
sharply at right angles, we headed direct for 
Bow Pass. 

Never have I seen the lake look more 
beautiful than on that fair morning in June. 
It was as blue as the sky could make it, the 
ice reflected the most vivid emerald green; 
in the distance a fine glacier swept to the 
lake - shore, whose every crevasse was a 




29 



30 Old Indian Trails 

brilliant blue line; the bleak grey mountains 
towered above, at our feet the bright spring 
flowers bloomed in the green grass, and over 
all hung the deep blue sky. Around us 
hovered the peace which only the beauty and 
silence of the hills could portray. 

From the summit of the Bow Pass (6800 
feet high) we gazed to the north on as fair a 
picture as dreams could suggest. Winter was 
reluctantly loosening its hard grasp upon 
those open meadow-like slopes; the snow 
lilies {Erythronium grand iflorum), the pale 
pink spring beauties {Claytonia lanceolata), 
and the bright yellow violets ( Viola semper- 
virens, were flirting with the butterflies and 
bees, pretending to be utterly oblivious to 
the mountains of snow all about them. We 
thought, as we wended our way over the crest 
of the pass, of lovely Peyto Lake which lay 
but a few hundred yards to our left, but with 
new fields to conquer, there was no time for a 
glimpse of the older friend. 

Camping on the far side of the pass in a 
stretch of burnt timber, we shook ourselves into 
camp routine. Not so with our horses, they 
were to be cajoled with no such thought that 
their keepers had chosen the best there was in 
that section of the countrv for them; and if 



Trouble at the Start — Bow Valley 31 

there is one thing a trail horse possesses, it is 
a clear recollection of the place he stopped in 
' ' last night. ' ' While our thoughts were on our 
supper, so were theirs, and they were "hiking " 
on the back trail, making for the luscious 
grasses of Bow Lake before any one had real- 
ised it. The consequences were that " M." and 
I were left alone to kill time and get supper 
while the men "lit out" in search of the 
delinquents. 

It was this evening that we had our first 
glimpse of mountain-goat. While waiting 
for the coffee-pot to boil, one of us picked 
up a very strong pair of binoculars, and 
stood gazing into the pocket which we knew 
held Peyto Lake, wondering what life there 
was in the hollow of those hills. The westering 
sun was drawing long purple shadows in 
sweeping lines into the valleys, a tiny chirp 
from the almost silent birds of the north, 
and we felt the coming slumber of night in the 
atmosphere. Suddenly a moving white spot 
far on the mountain opposite, then a second, 
then a third, caused the eye to steady and the 
hand to grow rigid. "A bunch of goat!" 
she gasped, and oh! what beauties they were! 
Strolling out on the impassable grass-grown 
cliffs after the heat of the day, with no fear 



32 Old Indian Trails 

in their movements, they were taking their 
own bacon and beans before the sun set 
in that sea of mountains. The coffee was 
forgotten, the bannock' burned, and by the 
time the men and the truants had returned 
we were still able to point out "our" goat 
through the evening haze, with far more 
pride than if we had shot them. 

The trail down Bear Creek is one of beauty 
from its very inception. We were up and 
oft' with the sunrise the next morning ; it grew 
hotter and hotter, and in our minds we were 
watching the steady rise of the Saskatchewan 
River, still a day's journey off. There could be 
little hurry with such heavily loaded horses, 
so we camped that night at the lower end of the 
second Wild Fowl Lake. Lying as it does 
under the shadow of Pyramid Peak, the view 
was superb, while the music from the falling 
avalanches left no words for our thoughts. 
Just as the purple shadows fell, a silvery 
crescent stole into the deepening sky, and by 
its soft light we could still catch the outline 
of the avalanches as they fell with reverberat- 
ing roar down the precipices opposite otir tents. 
The camp-fire crackled, on the soft breeze 

' A bread made on the trail with flour, baking-powder, a little 
bacon-fat, and water. 





33 



34 Old Indian Trails 

came the distant tinkle of the horse-bells, a 
mosquito hummed, a night-hawk with his 
raucous cry swept past, the moon's rays filtered 
through the spruce boughs, the fire died down 
and the camp slept. And they ask if one 
grows lonely. Lonely? How can one, when 
all Nature sings the evening hymn? 

A third day now added its heat to the other 
two, and the chief topic of conversation was 
the rising waters of the Saskatchewan. About 
noon we met a bunch of horses, fully sixty 
head, coming in from the Kootenai Plains 
where they had wintered. Tying up our own 
horses, we watched the procession headed 
by Tom Wilson, their owner, pass by. Then 
came the flower of the band, ''Nibs," who was 
to leave his chums and follow the vicissitudes 
of his mistress for the next four months. 
Just an Indian-bred pony, with a coat that 
only one who loved him could say was beauti- 
ful, he proved himself a perfect trail-horse. 
The saddle was soon transferred from the 
reliable old Pinto, and Nibs was presented to 
his new rider. 

From that day on introductions to all 
the horses followed fast and furious, and 
we found unique traits constantly cropping 
up among them. Living with them, trailing 





Pyramid Peak and Bear Creek 



35 



36 Old Indian Trails 

with them, watching over their interests, 
they soon ceased to be beasts of burden 
alone, and became our friends with character- 
istics almost as marked as though they were 
human. Some of them formerly timid from 
ill-usage, gradually forgot their faults in the 
daily kindness which was theirs at the hands 
of their new masters, and I shall never believe 
again that a horse lives with traits so bad, 
that he cannot be broken of them to a large 
extent by kindness. Certain it was that there 
were those in our band who at first were 
enough to try the patience of a saint, and in 
the end became perfect masters of their art. 
Having caught Nibs, we waved a last 
"good-bye" to Tom who now started ahead 
with his huge band, he for Laggan and the 
tourists, we for the unknown north. Singing 
out, "Sorry for you going through the Bow 
muskegs with all those horses!" — he called 
back, "Sorry for you crossing the Saskatche- 
wan!" and our hearts went flop as we realised 
the time for that crossing was almost with us. 
For Tom, who had both wintered and sum- 
mered on the Saskatchewan several years, 
knew the power and the danger of those 
rapidly rising waters and we knew that he 
knew. By 3 .30 in the afternoon we had crossed 




"Tom " Wilson, the " Oldest Inhabitant" of the Kootenai Plains 



37 



38 Old Indian Trails 

Bear Creek at its mouth. The water was 
boiling and plunging over the huge boulders 
and warned us that there was no time to 
lose. All got over that small stream safely 
which is not always the case, as the great 
force of the water is apt to cause a horse to 
stumble in so rough a river bed. One mile 
to the west of the entrance of Bear Creek into 
the Saskatchewan, there is one of the best 
fords on that river if you are bound for the 
north. On the ocean-like beach we took our 
stand, while "K.," mounting the only horse 
of the bunch which we knew could take care 
of himself in the great river (Nibs of course) , 
struck into the stream. The little fellow 
showed not the slightest hesitation as he took 
to the water but seemed rather proud than 
otherwise of showing off his ability to his new 
acquaintances. 

Those were anxious moments as we saw 
*'K." cross branch after branch of the great 
river. He slowly waded in, the water would 
creep higher and higher about the plucky 
pony's shoulders till horse and rider almost 
disappeared from view; they would then 
back out and try it farther up or down, 
then emerge to a bar and work over the next 
channel in the same way. At last after fifteen 



Trouble at the Start — Bow Valley 39 

minutes, we saw him a distant speck in the 
brilliant setting sun on the north shore. He 
waved his hand, and we knew that our yet 
untried horses could be got over without much 
danger of being washed down-stream. 

Yes, we got over without having to swim, 
but one never wants to take those large rivers 
which are fed by the great ice fields, other than 
seriously; the power of the water is that of 
the avalanche from the mountain-side, and 
it sweeps along throbbingly, intermittently, 
cruelly, and relentlessly. The horse, his head 
facing up stream a little to avoid the full blow 
of the onrushing waters, bends his whole 
body to the force; the rider, to help him in the 
balance, leans in an opposite direction; and 
as the water rises higher and higher, the feet 
have an inclination to fly up and the body to 
float out of the saddle. The temperature of 
all the rivers in that section of the country is 
about 42°, and as the water creeps to the waist- 
line one longs for the courage to turn back. 
As the deepest point is reached, all sensation of 
movement and advance ceases, every thought 
but that of self-preservation has gone bobbing 
down with the river which is flashing by, and 
it is then that you think of your guide's words 
of caution: "If your horse rolls over, get out 



40 Old Indian Trails 

of your saddle, cling to his mane, tail, or any- 
thing you can get hold of, but dont Jet go of 
him altogether! He may get out, you never 
will, alone." These are of course first sensa- 
tions. Eventually when one has learned to 
trust his horse, becomes accustomed to know- 
ing what to do, realises that caution and 
judgment mean safety, much of the danger 
is cancelled, but I should never advise a be- 
littling of the possibilities for accidents in 
these mountain streams. It is the very con- 
tempt for danger which has caused so many 
of the accidents which are recorded. 




Our Horses on the Shore of Nashan Lake 



CHAPTER III 

TRAILING THE NORTH FORK 

/^N the night of June 25th, we camped at 
^-^ the junction of the North Fork and the 
main river under the shadow of that magnifi- 
cent mass of crags, Mount Wilson. On a 
high point overlooking both streams our little 
white tents nestled among the spruces. Near 
at hand were old tepee-poles, bespeaking the 
sometime presence of the Indian hunter; 
across the river rose Mount Murchison, beyond 
her in the south could be seen our old friend 
Pyramid, to the south-west the Freshfield 
group; we were in a paradise of great hills. 

41 



42 Old Indian Trails 

Just as darkness fell Chief returned from an 
inspection of the horses, with the information 
that the river had risen considerably, and that 
we could not return without swimming if we 
wished, and, though we would not if we could. 




Under the Shadow of Mount Wilson 

there was just that much of contrariness in us, 
that we felt a qualm of loneHness as we 
realised that the door was closed for many 
a day to come. But there is always medicine 
for every woe, if only one knows where to 
look for it ; this time it was a wave of mosqui- 



Trailine^ the North Fork 43 



'fe 



toes which swept down upon us in the dusk. 
With all our forethought and caution we had 
forgotten the netting so necessary for that 
country! All thoughts of home and friends 
and other troubles were wiped out in the vain 
hope of inventing some way to rid ourselves 
of the small pests. Nothing seemed of any 
avail, and eventually, like hanging, we got 
used to them, — more or less. 

The next few days we were to learn the art 
of self-control. We may have thought we 
already possessed it, but there is little in 
civilised life to prepare the nervous system 
for the shocks to be endured (with the best 
equanimity that can be mustered), on the 
trail behind untrained horses. 

Though we had travelled the North Fork be- 
fore, it was not with an outfit of ' ' green ' ' horses. 
The river was turbid, angry and sullen. 
Swollen to the tops of the banks along the 
ragged edge of which the trail for miles seemed 
to enjoy running, we stared momentarily into 
a watery grave, till weary of surmising on such 
wet troubles we gave it up and turned our 
thoughts to the crags of Mount Wilson around 
whose base we travelled for hours. Expatiat- 
ing one day to a friend on the beauty of this 
mountain, he remarked: "I don't like Mount 



44 Old Indian Trails 

Wilson, I once travelled around its base for 
two days and it seemed as though I should 
never get away from it." Quite true, the 
proportions seemed almost limitless; and in 
its fastnesses the mountain-goat and sheep 
are able to elude the Indian hunter who is so 
merciless in his extermination. 

So, though the way around Mount Wilson 
be long, it was yet interesting, for, when not 
too busy jumping logs or floundering through 
muskeg, we could gaze aloft thousands of feet 
and watch the game feeding on the brinks 
of precipices that even a Swiss guide would 
treat with respect. 

Leaving the highways of Mount Wilson 
the trail descends, as I have said before, to 
the edge of the river where trouble in plenty 
was in store. Fox, a big, harmless-looking 
sorrel, with his full quota of two hundred 
pounds, in lumbering along with his fellow 
workers, by some unsurprising mistake, fell 
into the flood. From studying high jumps and 
deep holes before us, we turned around on hear- 
ing a sharp yell, our reveries rudely shattered 
by the picture of Fox. His face was the soul 
of serenity as he bobbed cheerfully about 
in the muddy flow with our two duffel-bags 
acting like a pair of Hfe-preservers. As a 





The North Fork along whose ragged edge we trailed for miles 



45 



46 Old Indian Trails 

drowning man is said to recall in a flash all 
his joys and sins, so through our minds ran an 
itemised list of the contents of those precious 
duffel-bags: clothing, glass plates, films, lenses, 
barometer, thermometer, compass, etc., and 
we one hundred miles from a telegraph pole! 
And then to behold that countenance of con- 
tent ! The water was cold and Fox was warm ; 
his burdens had lightened the moment he 
struck the water which buoyed him, the bags, 
the hypo, and a bunch of dry blankets (dry 
no longer) nicely. Sticks, stones, and yells 
finally brought him to shore but not to his 
senses, for the trail continued by the river, and 
the idea which had soaked into Fox's head by 
that tumble remained there, and whether the 
eyes of his masters were on him or not, he con- 
tinued throughout the day to jump in at every 
available point. At first we mentally jumped 
too, but the day was warm, the process tiring. 
Fox firm in his determination, and, as we could 
not stop to examine our troubles, we cast all 
cares aside and rode ahead through brush and 
mire, emerging upon "Graveyard Camp" at 
five o'clock that afternoon. This welcome if 
gruesomely named camp lies at the junction 
of Nashan River (known on Stuttfield's and 
Collie's map as " Wcst-Branch-of-the-North- 



Trailing the North Fork 47 

Fork-of-the-Saskatchewan ") and the main 
North Fork, the name having suggested itself 
to us from the quantities of bear, sheep, goat 
and porcupine bones which strewed the 
ground. 

From experience we had grown to naming 
our various camps, the easier to recall a 
location. With qualms and quivers we soon 
dug into the duffel-bags to find for once an 
advertisement which held good, — the duffel- 
bags had proven impervious to water after 
Fox's eminently thorough test, and our spirits 
flew up even though the rain, which soon 
settled in a steady downpour, soaked every 
article not previously tucked under cover. 
The music of its dripping on the tent walls at 
bed-time acted as a soporific, and we dropped 
calmly asleep with duffel-bags, barometers, 
rivers and stubborn horses blending in our 
dreams into one harmonious whole. 

Rain seems to be a permanent institution at 
' ' Graveyard Camp . ' ' We had visited it first in 
1906 when we made the discovery that horses 
could be taken over the pass east of that point 
to Pinto Lake, which is a beautiful sheet of 
water on Cataract Creek just east of Mount 
Coleman. It rained that trip. We have 
stopped there many times since and always in 



48 Old Indian Trails 

rain. This pass which may be called Pinto 
Pass is not at all a difficult one on its western 
slope ; on the east, however, are sheer cliffs of at 
least 1000 feet which looked at the time of our 
visit to cut off all possibilities of reaching the 
lake; but by keeping high on the shoulder of 
Mount Coleman we found an old game trail 
down which man and horse slid with what 
agility they could. The lake itself is famous 
among the Indians as a fishing ground — and 
no wonder. The outlet is deep and clear 
as crystal, and at the time of our visit in 
September, 1906, hundreds of speckled trout 
could be seen lazily swimming about or lying 
in the bottoms of the pools, all averaging 
fourteen inches in length. So heavy was our 
catch, that even our bacon-palled appetites 
refused to devour all we got, and we smoked 
them as did the Indians, in a dense smudge of 
sphagnum moss. To me the only way to eat 
the trout of those cold waters is to prepare 
them in this manner, as the meat is inclined to 
be soft and tasteless, even to palates grown 
uncritical on salt meats and bannock. 

But we must go back to "Graveyard." 
With the cessation of rain, on June the 30th, 
the camp stirred early. It was Sunday ; but 
only in our diaries. Out there in the hills 



Trailing the North Fork 49 

all beautiful days are Sundays. There is a 
peace, a contentment, even a singing of the 
birds which is like no other day at home. Just 
as we left "Graveyard Camp," we passed the 
mouth of the enterprising little river Nashan' 
which joins the main stream from the west, and 
decided to investigate it later. The previous 
cloudy days had reduced the volume of water 
in North Fork to such an extent that naviga- 
tion of the river-bed was a much easier matter 
than the previous days, with the exception of 
miles of shingle-flats or coarse gravel, which 
make hard travel for horses. Every horse 
moved along in good order excepting Buck, 
who fairly sought trouble. Like many a 
human being he was entirely too inclined to 
"know it all" in those school-days of his, 
consequently he plunged in where wiser feet 
feared to tread. To cross a torrent he per- 
sisted in taking the narrowest part instead of 
following the leader, with the consequence 
that several times he and his bacon were 
submerged, which made him very cross and 
was certainly of no benefit to the bacon. 

Camp-sites for the next twenty miles are 
comparatively scarce, for a site in this in- 
stance means horse-feed. 

' West-Branch-of-the-North-Fork. 
4 



50 Old Indian Trails 

Scenery to the Wilcox Pass becomes finer 
as the mileage increases; the trail rises rapidly 
to higher levels, and glimpses from among the 
spruces show Mounts Saskatchewan, Atha- 
baska, Wilson, Pyramid, and hundreds' of 
minor peaks which no one so far has had time 
to name, much less to climb. 

As the trail winds high among the notches 
of the hills, there comes to the ear a distant 
roar. As the trees part and the eye travels 
across the valley, a lovely little fall may be 
seen apparently bursting through the solid 
rock. Collie and Wilcox both mention this 
fall of the Saskatchewan, but give it no name. 

As we later found a panther (or wild-cat) 
had followed in our footsteps for a consider- 
able distance along this special bit of trail, we 
named them the Panther Falls. 

Camping at seven thousand feet, just south 
of the pass, we found an inexhaustible feast 
for the horses, who, after ten days' hard work, 
should have enjoyed their blessings. 

Not so, however, for next morning in spite of 
hobbles, they were found four miles on the 
home-stretch. I am sorry to say my own 
intimate companion. Nibs, was the aggressor 
and instigator of the mischief, and on the 
band being brought back to camp, he was 




Panther Falls on the North Fork 



51 



52 Old Indian Trails 

caught three times trying to sneak off again. 
As a final punishment the hobbles were 
clapped on his hind legs, and the poor little 
naughty buckskin, taking a few futile hops, 
gazed reproachfully at us and refused to move 
or eat for the rest of the day. It was a painful 
occasion all round but Nibs never forgot that 
lesson. 

The morning of "Fourth of July" pounced 
down upon our high camp and our patriotic 
souls with a shriek of wind which pelted the 
tent walls with snow. It chilled the bacon 
and boiled beans till they were veritable 
lumps of candle-grease but failed to postpone 
a preliminary inspection of the pass with the 
geological hammer and the cameras. Alas 
for any photographs of the summit! The 
clouds swept down upon Mount Athabaska, 
the snow whipped and cut across our faces, 
and our fingers ached in the icy blast. Even 
Wilcox Peak at our very elbow disappeared. 
Not a ptarmigan was in sight, and the ordi- 
narily plentiful mountain-sheep had certainly 
been more sensible than wC' — known enough 
to get in from the cold. A few small birds 
chirped sadly, and the frightened little rock 
rabbits, whistling notes of warning, whisked 
their tiny tails and scuttled to cover at our 



Trailing the North Fork 53 

approach. It did n't seem a bad idea to 
copy, so closing the useless cameras, and each 
one leading his own horse, we plunged and slid 
down the snowy slopes to our home under 
the shelter of the spruces. As the sweep- 
ing wind bore the night down upon us we 
sent the old Fourth on its way to the past, 
not with fire-crackers and bombs, but with 
the snap and flame of the camp-fire, a salute 
worthy of a more hospitable Fourth than had 
been ours. 




A Bad Stretch of Timber 



CHAPTER IV 

THROUGH UNMAPPED COUNTRY 

'"PHE best trail over the Wilcox Pass is 
-■■ known but to a few. It was made first 
by Jim Simpson, a guide and hunter, who 
is eminently acquainted with every byway 
within a hundred and fifty miles of the railway. 
As it has been such a boon to us since we 
found it, he may not mind my passing its 
location on. Fully a mile before reaching 
what seems the most direct ascent, scan the 
hill-slopes on the right. A wide gravelly 
stream-bed will disclose itself; ascend it one 
hundred yards through scrub and brush, and 
faith will soon lead you to a steep but direct 
trail which cuts off many of the hardships 

54 



Through Unmapped Country 55 

suffered by laden packs in going any other 
way. 

The Pass itself is one of the longest, spongi- 
est, most tiresome passes I have ever travelled. 
Being 7800 feet high the winter snows lie late, 
while the August and September storms sweep 
it constantly. At its northern terminus we 
gazed out upon a new world to us and among 
the bewildering mass of peaks which Dr. 
Collie's party had explored for the first time 
in 1898, leaving such names as WooUey, Stutt- 
field, Douglas, Diadem, The Twins, and Al- 
berta upon them. Those names bewildered 
us then, and I presume will continue to do 
so till the Government Survey reaches there, 
confers with the original explorers, and gives 
us a scientifically correct map. 

At this point we sprang into a country new 
to us, and which had been trodden by only a 
limited number before us. The hunter and 
timber-cruiser of course had gone that way, in 
the dim past the Indian, but all the real know- 
ledge we could obtain for the next hundred 
miles was Dr. Collie's work on the Sun Wapta, 
Jean Habel's paper, "At the Western Sources 
of the Athabaska River" in Appalachia, 1902, 
and Dr. Coleman's article on his discovery of 
Fortress Lake in 1893. 



56 Old Indian Trails 

This lake at present was our objective point. 
Over the Wilcox Pass we climbed, found an 
excellent trail down the other side and soon 
came into a fine little camp known to the 
initiated as "Sheep Camp," by a noisy, 
chattering mountain-stream. Here our trail 
dropped out of sight and failed to materialise 
in spite of much searching. A good-sized 
morning's work on the right side of that 
stream the next day inspired us to christen it 
"Tangle Creek." To proceed, we were com- 
pelled to get down to the Sun Wapta valley, 
whose wide white shingle flats we could see 
two thousand feet below us, and every one 
went valiantly at those slopes to get there. 
As the saddle horses (we having dismounted) , 
had only their own necks to preserve, their 
task was a comparatively easy one, ours 
being to avoid their plunging efforts as we 
loaned them a little judgment in choosing 
their way over and around the precipices, 
also keeping one eye on the heavily laden 
packs as they slipped and slid down the 
steep grade entirely too close for comfort. 
When by some instinct Chief crossed the 
stream, landed on a good trail near the bottom, 
and we took count of noses with every one 
answering "present," with not so mucli as a 



Through Unmapped Country 57 

pack shifted or a leg scratched, our faith in the 
new band went up to join our sentiments for 
the two men who made it a matter of ' ' all in 
a day's march." Horse-tracks all over that 
steep hillside showed that we were not the 
first ones to attempt the descent of Tangle 
Creek on its right (or we might say its 
wrong side) ; and I think it was Bill Peyto, 
another well-known guide of this country, 
who first found that the easiest way down was 
a little detour on the left of the stream just 
after passing Sheep Camp. Whoever he was 
I wish we had had his knowledge before the 
descent began rather than after ; it would have 
saved a fierce scrimmage. 

The trail down the Sun Wapta ' (a tributary 
of the Athabaska about thirty miles long) is 
composed of shingle flats for nearly half its 
length, which of course is wearisome even to 
shod horses, and well-nigh intolerable to the 
poor fellow who has cast a shoe. As our 
outfit slowly wended its way down these 
flats on the second day, Chief's gaze suddenly 
rested on three white spots poised at the top 
of a clay bank, and in a stage whisper he 

^ Sun Wapta — Stoney Indian for Whirlpool River. There 
being a tributary of the Athabaska, about one hundred miles 
north of the Sun Wapta, known as Whirlpool River, this fact 
has caused some confusion. 



58 Old Indian Trails 

muttered "goat." Fresh meat at last! 

Quickly consulting, " K." ' forged ahead on his 
pony with his rifle ready, and the rest of us 
dismounting, sat down in the open with a 
pair of binoculars to await results. Goat- 
meat did not sound tempting, btit our mouths, 
accustomed to bacon for so long, watered for 
something fresh and we longed like cannibals 
for that kid. Alas! quick as he was, the 
mother and child of that family were quicker, 
and I shall always think that kid was out with 
his grandparents that day. For the old man 
was the only one visible to the hunter on his 
arrival, and with our wish for fresh meat in 
his mind, '' K." shot him. " M." and I regarded 
his death instantly from a sentimental point of 
view, and a little later from a more practical 
standpoint, but at any rate he was not ctit down 
in the bloom of his youth; for though "K." 
pounded his steaks to a jelly on the stones, 
and boiled and simmered his legs for hours, he 
failed to be "chewable" let alone digestible, 
and eventually his remains were cast into the 
Athabaska, and no one of that party ever again 
sighed for goat. Some time after, we tried the 
hind quarter of a yearling, and to our surprise 
found it as delicious as any civilised lamb. 

' Our second guide. 



Through Unmapped Country 59 

Sheep we were to learn later was quite 
another matter, being really more tasteful 
than the domestic animal; but bear, porcu- 
pine, and old goat for the time being we 
relegated to Necessity's shelf. 

There are four points of interest on the Sun 




The Endless Chain 

Wapta which any one going that way might 
well bear in mind. On the second day's 
journey down that delectable (?) river, there is 
one of the longest and meanest stretches of 
quicksand I have ever encountered, at least 
a mile of the horrible stuff over which the 



6o Old Indian Trails 

horses needed to "step lively" to avoid a 
painful exit from the world. On the third 
day we encountered a rock-slide on the 
river's left which seemed to raise an impass- 
able barrier to all further progress, till, by 
plunging into the muskeg on our left, we came 
across the trail again around its western 
limitations. A short distance beyond the 
rock-slide and on the river's right begins a 
low, rocky ridge, which for length and un- 
adulterated ugliness cannot be beaten. We 
trailed it for a day and a half and then named 
it ' ' The Endless Chain" ; well named too, for, on 
reaching theAthabaska shores, we found that it 
still stretched on in an unbroken line for miles 
down the river. As we neared the junction 
of the Sun Wapta and the main river we found 
that the former plunged through a fine canyon, 
which is elbowed in shape. Unfortunately 
the forest about it had been fire-swept, but it 
is still worth the walk through the scrub to 
see. 

The hinted troubles of trail travel on the 
Sun Wapta grew into solid facts by July the 
8 th. Our way was strewn with very small 
burnt fallen pines, which cracked and crackled 
like match-sticks beneath our horses' feet, 
and though we found the trail, the one on 







o 



6i 



62 Old Indian Trails 

the lead had plenty of cutting to do, and con- 
sidering the burdened beasts and hundreds of 
varied specimens of flies, neither he nor any 
one else was indulging in unmitigated joys. 
We boiled and we burned as the sun beat 
down upon us from an unclouded sky; and 
words or comments became useless as we leapt 
log after log, with all energy reserved to keep 
ears, eyes, and nostrils free from the swarms of 
gnats. Then all troubles ceased for the mo- 
ment as we suddenly emerged from a forest of 
young pine and sighted for the first time the 
main Athabaska. Now, as we had been looking 
for that old river for three days, we naturally 
had some high ideas, and like all great antici- 
pations the reality, for the time being, fell far 
short of the mark. To begin with, the valley at 
that point was arid, fire-swept, and generally 
nondescript as well as hot and fly-ridden; as 
for the river it was scarce the size of the 
Saskatchewan at the Kootenai Plains and just 
as muddy and turbid. It was distinctly 
disappointing. 




Fortress Lake 



CHAPTER V 



ON THE SEARCH OF FORTRESS LAKE 



nrO find Fortress Lake, now that we had at 
* last really reached the shores of the 
Athabaska River, was our next aspiration. 
Riding down to the water's edge we struck the 
ghost of a trail, and just hoped it would go on 
and lead us to our destination. It was a very 
forlorn specimen on which to base any hopes, 
it never got much worse (there was scant 
chance) , and it certainly never got any better. 
Dr. Coleman discovered this lake in his 
search for the mythically high mountains 
Hooker and Brown in 1893; Walter D. Wilcox 
went that way in 1896, then Jean Habel in 
1 90 1. Like our predecessors we did not 

63 



64 Old Indian Trails 

spend much time on public improvements and 
hurried on up the hot, unattractive, burnt 
valley as fast as the laden ponies could go 
over "down" timber and through thick pine 
growth, with an occasional stretch of muskeg 
to vary the monotony. Just as though the 
going was not already trouble enough. Dandy, 
a beautiful impulsive bay, looked for more. 
Gazing over a nine-foot bank, he saw the cool 
gurgling waters hurrying along below, and 
in the blow of an eye rolled and slid down 
into a narrow dangerous gorge where he went 
bobbing around like a cork. Not wishing to 
lose him or his cargo, the men went violently 
to work fishing him out. The bank was steep, 
his pack heavy, and with each eft'ort to pull 
him up, the earth broke away and over he 
rolled. I looked over once just in time to see 
a great splash, and protruding from it four 
bay legs, — the biggest part of Dandy was out 
of sight. With a halter-rope in front and a club 
behind, the flour, matches, baking-powder, 
and he were rescued for the time being. 

Poor Dandy ! You were really too much of 
a gentleman to ever be meant for the trail or 
a pack, and only by such bitter experiences 
were you ever to fit yourself for so menial a 
walk in life. We won't mention the con- 



Search of Fortress Lake 65 

dition of the flour on later investigation. Or 
I might mention it, too, by saying that the 
one good ducking put that flour into an im- 
pervious condition encasing it in a glue of its 
own, so that henceforth if it were only the 
flour that was swimming no one flinched. 
The sugar unfortunately had a fashion of 
shrinking with every fresh bath, while the 
tea and coffee swelled. 

So while the horses were studying their 
lessons we were too. We could see in the near 
future unsweetened puddings and sugarless 
cakes, and in time the tea and coffee became 
so happily blended in flavour that only he 
who filled the pot knew which was in it. 

Two days' travel up the valley brought us 
to the junction of a stream from the south 
and also to the first green timber and good 
horse-feed seen for many a day. According 
to Collie's map we should be within a short 
distance of Fortress Lake. Choosing a camp- 
site in the meadows to the river's right and 
opposite a towering rocky peak, we decided 
to look about before advancing farther with 
the horses. 

My! I shall never forget the mosquitoes 
that night! How we rolled our heads in the 
hot blankets and in the midst of suffocation 



66 



Old Indian Trails 




Fortress Mountain, a Towering;;, 
Rocky Peak 



and heat, longed for 
the forgotten ' ' bug- 
nets!" How we 
sopped our faces 
with citronella till 
we hated the name, 
and applied a 
highly advertised 
mosquito "dope" 
which was grey and 
greasy and, whose 
only virtue as a 
destroyer, seemed 
to be to catch the 
enemy by the wings 
and leave him kick- 
ing and struggling 
on the very spot 
which we wished to 
preserve from his 
ravages! But even 
the worst nights 
pass, and with the 
dawn we were up 
prepared to climb 
a fine m o u n t a i n 
back of the camp 
("Mount Quincy" 



Search of Fortress Lake 67 

— Coleman) to see if from some point of 
vantage we might locate that elusive lake. 
Amidst heat and mosquitoes and heavy 
brush we struggled to the rock bluffs, where 
one small party was tossed by another party 
up to a third party in such undignified, 
unceremonious fashion that party number one 
wished climbing had never been invented. 

Just above timber-line the lake suddenly 
burst upon our view, a long, pale, blue-green 
ribbon tossed in dainty abandon among the 
fir-clad hills. To the right, across the valley, 
stood the towering black peak which frowned 
upon our little camp far below, and which we 
found later Dr. Coleman had named ''For- 
tress," thus giving the name to the lake. 
The lake itself is estimated to be nine miles in 
length, and, at the extreme end, a fine peak 
rises with snowy glaciers sweeping to the 
shore. It was a great sight, and well repaid us 
for the scramble up and the drenching we got 
returning to camp. 

Knowing our lake was in such close prox- 
imity, the next day passed as only a woman 
in camp knows how to pass it. To study 
out how to do a large wash in a small tea- 
cup, to smooth out the rough-dry garments 
and avoid appearing as though one had 



68 Old Indian Trails 

personally passed through a wringer, these 
are chores which cause an off-day in camp 
to glide as swiftly by as the passing of 
the sun. I remember that night it rained 
and we had the luxury of supper served in our 
tent. Two gunny-sacks were spread on the 
soggy ground, the table laid with agate plates 
for four, then came piles of dried beef and ham 
frizzled together, after which rice-pudding with 
stewed currants and a rich fruit-cake were 
served. An appetite which is seldom met with 
at the most tempting banquet graced the feast. 
Setting out on July 13th for the shores of 
Fortress Lake, only three miles from Fortress 
Camp, Pinky, a little white rat of a horse, 
was entrusted with our sleeping-bags. Not sat- 
isfied to follow the leader in navigable waters, 
he had picked out a way for himself and we 
suddenly saw him bobbing down stream, the 
bags shipping water with horrible regularity. 
Did he care? Not a bit! With yells and 
imprecations he was ordered to "get out of 
that!" but he only blinked his white eye- 
lashes, till, seeing no one w^ould follow him, 
and having struck bottom, he waded calmly 
ashore. As we emerged on the soft shores of 
the lake. Pinky strolled in last, placed his 
head by a tree so as to look tied up like the 



Search of Fortress Lake 69 

others, and plainly inferred by his actions, 
"Well I 've brought those sleeping-bags, what 
was all the row about anyhow? " Poor Pinky! 
he was small, homely, and insignificant, he 
could n't carry much but a pair of beds, but 
oh! the sense and thought inside that non- 
descript looking little head! Pinky was to 
shine as days went on. 

The shores of Fortress Lake proved no place 
for a lengthy stay, being very soft and infested 
with mosquitoes. The surrounding forests 
were almost impenetrable. We had not taken 
sufficient requisites for making a raft, so that 
except for photography, we were better back at 
Fortress Camp. 

This western tributary which we had fol- 
lowed, Coleman has called " Chaba," being the 
Stoney word for "Beaver." We explored it 
to its source, a matter of five or six miles, found 
any quantity of game tracks, glaciers, and a 
good-sized stream running into the Chaba 
from the south, about three miles from our 
camp. This stream tempted us, but summer 
outings in this country are only four months 
long at the outside, and as we had seen another 
and larger stream coming from the south-east, 
we decided to explore it. 

I do not know what we missed in the un- 



70 Old Indian Trails 

explored branch, but I do know the beauty 
we found in the one we chose to see. Re- 
turning to the junction of these two streams 
via the west shore of the river, two experi- 
ences are indelible in my mind. We were 
slowly trailing down the river-bank about 
ten o'clock in the morning switching mosqui- 
toes as usual, watching Pinky, Buck, and 
Dandy, with now calloused eyes as at frequent 
intervals they carried the beds, the duffel-bags, 
or the bacon and flour into deep holes and out 
again, when suddenly miles down the valley 
we caught a glimpse of a tiny column of smoke. 
"A hunter! Who can it be? Why should he be 
so late getting his breakfast?" Of course no 
one could answer the questions. The uncer- 
tain column grew steadier, then heavier, and 
in an hour we knew it was no hunter but a 
forest-fire raging where we had camped but 
five days before. Whose fault had it been? 
Not ours, "for had we not carried many 
buckets of water to extinguish that particular 
fire? Strangersmust be behind us." Not that 
one of us believed there was a stranger within 
a hundred miles of us, or doubted for an in- 
stant that we had been careless, but it was a 
comfort to talk that way and ease our minds 
of certain guilt. 






' t ! 



1 i c 






J 



71 



72 Old Indian Trails 

As night settled down upon the valley, we 
all took a last, lingering, regretful look at the 
fire-demon eating his way up the mountain- 
side opposite us and wondered " what villain 
had done the foul deed?" 

With an uneasy conscience I for one felt 
pretty badly, and waking at numerous inter- 
vals, heard some sort of a creature scratching 
around the tent. The next morning "M." 
told me she had felt something soft and 
warm between her shoulders at daybreak and 
turning to investigate, a good-sized rat walked 
out and feeling he was de trop had, with great 
dignity, left the tent. She said his expression, 
as he glanced back over his shoulder at her, 
was one of the most intense annoyance, and 
clearly expressed the fact that "if she did not 
know enough to keep still he did not want to 
be there anyhow." 

The fire was still raging on the other side 
of the river when the tin wash-basin tapped 
out "all aboard for boiled mush!" It was a 
frosty morning, a small fire had been built 
in front of our tent, and a stiff breeze was 
blowing down the river as we sat down 
to breakfast in the open. Just as I was 
conscientiously choking down a mouthful 
of awful boiled mush, my wandering eye 



Search of Fortress Lake 73 

landed on our recently reposeful domicile. 
There it was in flames and going up like 
newspaper! Of course every one jumped and 
rushed to save our home. How it was done 
I do not know, but in a trice the fire was out, 
and we four were standing there looking at 
each other and taking account of the damaged 
stock, — one wash-cloth half destroyed, a hand- 
some silk neckerchief riddled with holes, 
sleeve of a sweater gone, handle of a tooth- 
brush snapped in the scramble, and worst of 
all, one half of the tent gone up in smoke. 
Moral,- — no more "Egyptian cloth" or par- 
affine-dressed tents if they do weigh one- 
fourth that of an ordinary duck canvas! 
We went back to the boiled mush, reposing 
expectantly on the pack-mantle table; no 
tragedy would ever overtake that awful 
stuff. 

Just as our belongings, scorched and other- 
wise, were being finally disposed of in the 
duffel-bags we heard an unfamiliar horse-bell, 
and out from the bush by the river stepped 
three men and five horses. "Timber-cruiser" 
was written all over them and timber-cruisers 
they were. They had originally come up the 
Athabaska from Edmonton on the south side 
of the river, reaching a point opposite our 



74 Old Indian Trails 

camp they were caught in a ''jack-pot,"' and 
rather than chop or back their way out, they 
burnt their way through. Then seeing fresh 
cuttings on the north side, they concluded 
surveyors had just gone through, that the 
north side was the correct route, and so built 
a raft and crossed over, a flattering tribute to 
our men's labour. If their disappointment 
was keen on finding the surveyors were only 
four picnickers, our sensations were decid- 
edly joyful at knowing that the fire burning 
so hideously on the mountain opposite was 
not to be laid to our door after all. 

I Jack-pot = fallen timber, muskeg, anything 'representing 
trouble on the trail. 





Mount Columbia Valley, or South Branch of the Chaba 



CHAPTER VI 

TO THE BASE OF MOUNT COLUMBIA 

AND now for that unknown branch of the 
Athabaska we had passed on our way 
to Fortress Lake. It was decidedly alluring. 
From "Burnt Tent Camp" we had looked 
through the folds of hills to a snow-white peak 
absolutely pyramidal in form, and that it 
enticed our wandering footsteps no one denied. 
Mounting our steeds and crossing the river 
with a certain amount of soakage, we soon 
struck an apology for a trail. Doubtless Jean 
Habel, the German climber, had been the last 
white man to go that way (as he is also 
the first recorded) , for we very soon concluded 
that the great white pyramid was Mount 

75 



76 Old Indian Trails 

Columbia, whose northern slopes Habel had 
visited in 1901. 

As Chief and " K." wished to explore ahead a 
little before going in with the whole outfit, the 
other two of us had one of our rare days in 
camp. These days always began with ad- 
monitions from the departing ones ''not to 
meddle in the kitchen department, or to waste 
the laundry soap," and always ended with our 
flying at both the minute our guardians were 
out of sight. I must confess, however, one 
other idea always leapt ahead of a good 
morning's wash or baking during these tem- 
porary absences of our caretakers, and that 
was hears. 

How often people shake their heads, and 
speak of our wanderings in the hills as ''brave 
and courageous." How little they know about 
it. A bear, and that a grizzly, is the only fear 
I have and as I 've never met one I 'm not quite 
sure of my ground even with him. Brown 
bears and black bears w^e have seen hurr^ang 
away from our advancing forces, but hunters 
have told me a grizzly courts a stand-up fight 
and fears no one ; also that he fails in one ac- 
complishment — he cannot climb a tree. Neither 
can I. However we do much under stress of 
circumstances; and the first idea that pops into 



To the Base of Mount Columbia T] 

my head on seeing the backs of the men dis- 
appear in the distance, is to look for a tree 
I might climb in case Mr. Grizzly should 
materalise. Like the burglar under the bed, 
I 've been looking for him for many years and 
so far he has never come. 

But with our men gone to explore the Col- 
umbia Valley (or West Branch of the Atha- 
baska), a rather thin and wispy tree picked 
out to escape from the imaginary bear, my 
own mind settled down to the problem of 
making a whole tent out of a half -burnt one, 
while "M." took up the homely duties of 
baking and washing. All day long we pieced 
and patched, occasionally hoisting the tent to 
the ridge-pole for a fitting, and the result was 
something wonderful. At the end of the day 
as the long cool shadows fell across our home 
and valley, we heard the distant call of the 
home-comers. A fine fruit-cake, a beautiful 
bannock, and a very peculiarly shaped but 
rain -proof tent awaited their arrival. There 
was a polite grin, and one ingrate remarked as 
his eye lit on the restored tent, 'Tt looks just 
like a chicken-coop," while the other sug- 
gested "a resemblance to a snow-plough or a 
bat." Perhaps it did. To me, with fingers 
stiff and sore from using a darning needle, 



78 Old Indian Trails 

coarse black patent thread, and a pair of nail 
scissors all day, it was grace and beauty 
personified; and with the passing of the next 
thunder-storm the grudging "Oh it 's not so 
bad" was salve to my bruised fingers and 
tired back. 

On July 28th with tents whole once more, 
refreshed horses, and five miles of new ground 
explored the previous day by the men, we 
were up and off early in chirpy mood bound 
for the new valley. 

It was a wild stream this West Branch, and 
owing to the previous hot days it was a little 
higher perhaps than at our first crossing of it. 
Still, by following the leader absolutely, there 
was no reason to expect trouble. But in 
those early days of the new band there was 
never any accounting for the movement of 
some one of them or the other. This day it 
was Buck. The river bottom was bouldery 
and rough, four or five horses had gone over 
carefully, scarcely wetting the cinchas; and 
then that yellow, aggravating Buck and his 
bacon came in. I can see his face yet as 
it expressed the words, "Stupids, I '11 show 
you a better way"; and sallied independently 
into the stream among the roughest bunch 
of rocks he could have picked upon, and the 



To the Base of Mount Columbia 79 

current promptly knocked him over. Strug- 
gling up, he struck out for land and, in his 
nervous haste, got his left foot caught in the 
halter-shank. Under the circumstances four 
legs were few enough but three were just about 
useless. Down he went! Chief, with his 
drawn knife, tried to push up to him on Pinto, 
but this writhing, tumbling thing in the water 
was an unknown object to Pinto, and some- 
times when Pinto would n't, he did n't, and 
this was one of the sometimes. Once more 
Buck pulled his bacon and himself to the air, 
but his nerve was going fast and I saw him 
flop weakly over, then three unresisting 
yellow legs stood up stiff and still, and every 
one thought that Buck was "all in." Just as 
we had concluded that his hour had come and 
probably passed, a feeble wriggle of the legs 
brought him once more to the surface with all 
fight gone, and he stood gasping for breath, 
ears laid back flat, and the water pouring 
from him. This time Pinto recognised his 
friend. Chief reached out, cut the halter- 
shank, and Buck dragged his weary way to 
the shore with his load. It surely seemed as 
though we should stop then and there and give 
him "first aid to the injured," but he was 
forced to step into line, his ears gradually 



80 Old Indian Trails 

came back to their normal poise, and in an 
hour he was strutting along as briskly and 
independently as usual. However, he had 
learned something, and from that day for- 
ward Buck always took cognisance of the 
route laid out by the leader and was mighty 
particular how he followed. 

The unknown (to us) branch of the Atha- 
baska proved to be about thirty-five miles 
long. The first two days' march were de- 
cidedly bad with fallen timber and lots of 
muskeg. Habel's trail and an occasional 
camp of his were easily recognised, whilst the 
numerous caribou tracks were reason enough 
for so many tepee-poles along the whole valley. 
There were also several trees with Cree writing 
on them, indicating that the Crees from around 
Edmonton, and not our friends the Stoneys 
from the south, were the hunters of that 
valley. 

The day of the 31st of July dawned clear, 
hot, and beautiful. Chief and "K." explored 
ahead as usual in the new country, in prefer- 
ence to driving the horses from good feed 
to an uncertain quantity. Our tents were 
pitched on an island, a very cosey one at that, 
and " M." and I prepared to fill in a lazy day. 
We boiled beans, killed bull-dog flies, drove the 



To the Base of Mount Columbia 8i 

horses out of the tents where no other grass 
than that seemed to suit them, and visited an 
old camp of Habel's. There stood the record 
of his visit carved on the stump of a felled 
tree," 1901 Habel, Campbell, Barker, Ballard." 
Only six summers had gone by, yet his trail was 
fallen in, the boughs of his bed were curled and 
warped, the fire-place grown over with moss, 
and Habel himself, probably the first explorer 
in this valley, had been sleeping the long sleep 
for five years. As we went back to bur little 
home of cosey tents and cheery camp-fire, and 
horses wandering comfortably about, we won- 
dered — wondered — where five years' time 
would find us, and who would follow in our 
footsteps. To shake off the sadness, and to 
give the trail-breakers a welcome, a bright 
idea popped into my head, "They shall have 
a boiled pudding." I made the pudding and 
we all tasted it and it was a good pudding, 
that is if it had been intended for a cannon- 
ball and not for an object of diet. It probably 
lies there to-day; our camp-site may fade, our 
trip be forgotten, but that pudding ought to 
be there when the next explorers go through. 
Our third and last day's drive to the base 
of Mount Columbia will last while memory 
lingers in those hills. No breath of fire had 



82 Old Indian Trails 

ever scorched those last miles of green, green 
slopes. The soft ground disappeared, the 
river was fordable at any point, the wide 
shingle-flats allowed us to wander anywhere, 
and caribou tracks were there in thousands. 
Waterfalls springing from the very summits of 
unnamed peaks fell thousands of feet; the 
names of WooUey, Stuttfield, Alberta, and 
Diadem danced before our eyes as mountain 
after mountain came into view, but all that 
we knew was — there lay Columbia before us. 
No feed for several miles was in sight to 
tempt us to linger, so we hurried forward over 
the shingle-flats till under the shadow of the 
mountain. There we halted. The sight was 
a fine one ; snow-clad and glacier-draped, she 
was a beautiful example of exquisite symmetry. 
Outram, who is the only one to have ever 
reached her sharp and snowy summit, gives 
her an altitude of 12,500 feet. Having 
ascended from the southern side he had ample 
opportunity to gain a general knowledge of 
the ice-fields adjacent to this splendid moun- 
tain. He says: 

"But the crowning feature of the panorama was the 
survey of the immense area of the Columbia ice-field, 
possibly the largest known outside the Arctic regions 
and their fringe. It covers about two hundred 




Mount Columbia — "An example of exquisite symmetry ' 



83 



84 Old Indian Trails 

square mileS; being upwards of thirty miles in length 
from the head of the 7ieve to the tongue of the Sas- 
katchewan glacier, protrudes its glacier ramifications 
to every point of the compass, and occupies the 
geographical centre of the water system of one quarter 
of the continent of North America." 

From our point of vantage, the mountain 
swept up in an almost unbroken plane for 
about 8000 feet. On the eastern slope a 
fine glacier clung, descending almost to the 
valley, and from the western shoulder, trend- 
ing almost due north, arose a fine rocky forma- 
tion which v/e designated "Edward VII." 
This mountain, with marked horizontal strata 
and whose true summit lies much to the west 
of its centre, may, however, be the mountain 
which Dr. Collie saw through the haze and 
smoke from the summit of Mount Athabaska 
in 1898 and called "Alberta." 

Coming from the west and sweeping around 
the northern base of this mountain to join the 
stream from Columbia, was a good-sized body 
of water which we explored two days later. At 
the present moment, however, our minds were 
compelled to turn to the practical affairs of life. 
Here at the base of Mount Columbia we longed 
to camp, but excepting scenery and shingle- 
flats there was nothing upon whicli to feed the 



To the Base of Mount Columbia 85 

very hungry horses, so we reluctantly (and oh, 
how reluctantly!) crept back into the saddles 
and slowly retraced our way down that fair 
valley looking right and left for grass. Five 
miles back on our tracks and on the river's left, 
we came across two small islands with a limited 
supply of poor feed upon them. Indians 
had been there during the hunting season; 
bones of sheep and caribou littered the ground, 
racks for drying and smoking meat stood 
around, and tepee-poles were pitched in 
clusters where the squaws must have placed 
them several years before. 

The whole valley is a bad one for horses, 
the grass being limited in both quality and 
quantity; but for that important fact it was 
the first ideal home we had struck since we 
crossed the Wilcox Pass. 

Our tents were pitched on the softest and 
greenest of moss carpets, beneath spruces 
which kept off the beating rays of the noonday 
sun, and sheltered us at night from the chill 
winds which swept from the Columbia ice- 
fields. After getting nicely settled I found a 
little visitor on "M's" bed, a fat comfortable- 
looking toad. Not particularly desiring the 
company of toads, yet not wishing to hurt his 
sociable feelings, I hopped him gently outside ; 



86 Old Indian Trails 

in half an hour there he was perched on my 
own bed, and looking up witli intense defiance 
at me. Again I hopped him out. In an hour's 
time I saw his small phiz leering at me from a 
spot of refuge which he had discovered in the 
folds of my blankets. The time seemed ripe to 
deal firmly with that toad if I was n't going to 
have him for a bedfellow, so gathering the 
ugly little intruder up gently, I deposited him 
quite fifty yards from either tent, warning him 
off the premises on pain of absolute extinction. 
Then we forgot him. When the stars had 
come forth in the gloaming (it never seems 
night on the northern trail) , and the owls were 
hooting in distant tree-tops, and the wind 
sweeping down the valley from the great ice- 
fields, each said good-night and turned into 
his and her blankets. A beautiful silence fell 
like a cloak about the camp, so beautiful I 
only whispered, "Where do you suppose that 
toad is?" Before I could get a surmising 
reply, there was a curdling howl from the 
"chicken-coop," and a voice muttered, "He 's 
squashed flat!" I had my answer. 

Except for the delightful trailing at the 
upper end of the valley, as described, the way 
is very poor indeed. It is stony and rough 
in places and the crossing of the numerous 



To the Base of Mount Columbia 87 

mountain streams ugly. Even if only two or 
three yards wide, they proved in many in- 
stances very deep and soft with clay -like banks 
which were treacherous in the extreme. For- 
tunately a couple of cold nights had brought 
the river down a foot or more, and several bad 
holes were thus circumnavigated on our return 
trip. 

What ailed the horses the morning we left 
"Columbia Camp" I do not know. A spirit 
of meanness or rivalry seemed to have entered 
their heads. Bugler, "M's" pony, announced 
in emphatic actions that he was going to be 
up next to the leader; Brownie as good as told 
him that he wanted that place and cut in by 
slipping around the whole bunch. Bugler's 
rider, wishing to see how the game would go, 
did not interfere, and Bugler gave Brownie a 
nip on the rump which sent him flying to the 
rear. Then Dandy took a hand, only to get 
the same warning to keep off the premises. 
Little blinky-eyed Pinky then tried it, and was 
so enraged at the treatment he received, that 
he retired to the rear with his sleeping-bags 
and was not seen nearer than half a mile during 
the rest of the day's march. That was not an 
uncommon affair with Pinky however. He 
was very easily insulted, and, possessing a 



88 Old Indian Trails 

naturally exclusive disposition, we had grown 
quite accustomed to his wandering alone far 
behind. But Buck evidently began to think 
Bugler was having things entirely too much 
his own way, and up he sauntered in such a 
meaningless, non-committal fashion, that even 
the amused riders did not take in the signifi- 
cance of his act. Just as he slipped between 
Chief's horse and Bugler, out flew the Sorrel's 
white teeth, and Buck caught it as had the 
others. But this time it was no shy Dandy or 
thin-skinned Pinky or humble Brownie, it was 
just Buck. In the glare of the noonday sun 
I caught a glimpse of two steel shoes, a dull 
thud was heard, Bugler's ribs and those steel 
heels had come suddenly in contact. It was a 
surprised and humbled Bugler who promptly 
edged out of the fray, and for days to follow 
he would drop politely back when the ever- 
remembering Buck sauntered up with his ears 
laid flat. 

Another exhibition of horse sense took place 
in that valley of abominable holes. The spot 
was a mountain-stream between two sharp 
hills. The crystal water poured down into a 
hole criss-crossed with fallen timber. The 
hole itself was bad enough to cross, but the 
timber made it a veritable trap, and we all 



To the Base of Mount Columbia 89 

wished we were beyond it even before we 
reached it. The saddle-horses and two or 
three packs had gone through fairly well 
and had climbed the sharp hillside beyond 
when a call came from "K." that assistance 
was needed. We did not turn back with 
Chief, it being quite enough for us to listen to 
the words of encouragement and shouting 
which came up from the ravine below. 

One pack after another slowly crawled up 
the hill into view, all but Brownie, and then 
we knew who was in trouble. From our high 
point, however, we commanded a view of 
the trail one hundred yards back of the hole 
and this was what we saw. Pinky was 
running light that day and as usual was far 
in the rear. As he rounded the bend he 
spied the trouble just ahead, paused, studied 
the situation out, turned, and went deliber- 
ately back to the bank of the main river. 
There again he stopped, looked first at the 
angry waters, and then at the hole again. 
Having settled matters to his own satisfac- 
tion he stepped to the brink, plunged into the 
river, was shot down stream fifty yards, and 
landed nicely on the only bit of gravel to be 
found within a half mile. Shaking his little 
whitey-brown hide and blinking his white 



90 Old Indian Trails 

lashes over his wee ratty eyes he sauntered 
up to his waiting friends, ignoring completely 
our giggles of amusement at the neat way in 
which he had got around that hole. In a few 
minutes Brownie came up weary and spent, 
with a saturated solution of groceries on his 
back. We asked no questions, we just knew 
from every one's attitude and silence that 
Brownie had been saved only in the nick of 
time, and we were simply thankful the old 
fellow was there at all. 

Trailing is great fun, especially in untried 
by-ways, but the small hairbreadth escapes 
and the perils which come upon our four-footed 
friends without warning are sometimes a little 
trying to bear. 




Mount Forbes from the Junction of Bear Creek and the 
Saskatchewan River 



CHAPTER VII 



BACK ON THE OLD FAMILIAR TRAIL 



A BOUT noon on August the 8th, having 
-'* said a long farewell to the main Atha- 
baska, her tributaries, the beautiful moun- 
tains at their sources, and dug a hole deep in 
our memories wherein we deposited all small 
trail woes, we turned the corner and made for 
old "Match-stick Camp" on the Sun Wapta, 
We were soon traversing the burnt section so 
recently made by the timber-cruisers. The 
ground was still hot from the fire, and so were 
our hearts as we looked on that four square 
miles of ruthlessly, carelessly, uselessly de- 

91 



92 Old Indian Trails 

stroyed timber. It was with sincere thank- 
fulness that we turned into the above-named 
camp and found everything as green and 
fresh as the day we left it, a sure guaranty 
that the fire did belong to those ' ' cruisers " and 
not to a stray brand from our own fire-place. 
I can imagine no more haunting memory of 
the trail than to feel that I or my companions 
might be responsible for any of the many 
forest fires which have from time to time dis- 
figured that glorious mountain country of 
which I write. 

Back by the Endless Chain, around the 
great rock-slide, and gingerly over the quick- 
sand we made our way up the valley of the 
Sun Wapta to a well marked creek called by 
Dr. Collie " Diadem. " Our march of recession 
was marked by feasts of strawberries and 
cream, strawberry shortcake and strawberry 
pie; every open spot was a strawberry patch. 
Honey and maple-syrup were getting low in 
the larder, but who cared while these delicious 
berries lasted? Whether it be environment or 
appetite I know not, but nothing from a civil- 
ised garden ever tasted half so delicious as 
those crimson bits of sweetness after a long 
day's march. 

Before reaching Diadem Creek, Pinky once 



Back on the Old Familiar Trail 93 

more illustrated his superiority of mind over 
the small amount of flesh vouchsafed him. 
About half way up the valley on the river's left 
is a stretch of muskeg as mean as one is ever 
liable to encounter, mean just because no one 
suspects it is muskeg until his horse is com- 
pletely entrapped in it. We had been ambling 
along quietly for hours, when suddenly the 
three lead saddle-horses were floundering and 
plunging through the bad spot before we knew 
enough to get off ; Roanie who was at our heels 
had sailed in with his pack and was plunging, 
kicking, and rushing through the death-trap 
before any one could ward him off. Chief 
hurried up, cut off the advance of the rest of 
the outfit in the nick of time, then led them by 
twos and threes up and around the mountain- 
side. Pinky coming up last, sauntering along 
with head meditatively bent, reached the brink 
of the trouble after all the other horses had 
been personally conducted over the hill. He 
stopped and inspected that muskeg, looked 
up the mountain, turned, and strolled leisurely 
in the direction the men had just taken the 
other horses. He never followed in the foot- 
steps of his companions however. Non- 
chalantly walking in among his waiting 
friends on the far side of the mess, that stupid, 



94 Old Indian Trails 

witless-looking Pinky had not one splash of 
mud above his hoofs while the others were 
grimy to the cinch as. Pinky was a bom trailer. 
Oh, we laughed of course at that tiny bunch 
of bones taken along as an extra in case of 
trouble, but he had every one's respect. 

August the 1 2th found us at Diadem Creek, 
which heads from a mountain of the same 
name. Here Dr. Collie mentions camping 
and climbing to the various high points in 
that vicinity, and it was here that "K." had 
killed the grandfather goat whose meat proved 
so untoothsome. But one cannot camp with 
twelve horses without grass; search as we 
would none was found, nothing but epilobium 
and drias no matter which way we turned. 
So we were compelled to go about five miles 
up stream to our original first camp on the Sun 
Wapta, where we trusted the small amount 
of slough grass had taken on a fresh growth 
in our absence. 

Feed on the Sun Wapta is so scarce for about 
fourteen miles in this part of the country, 
that this small patch is easily overlooked by 
a person visiting here for the first time. It 
lies on the river's left about three miles from 
the mouth of the stream which plunges direct 
from the Wilcox Pass. Just beyond this 



Back on the Old Familiar Trail 95 

camp-ground a large stream enters the main 
river, heading from the cluster of mount- 
ains of which Mounts WooUey and Stutt field 
are part, and this stream we determined to 
explore. 

The following day being Monday and no 
serious climbing anticipated (this is only a 
story of the valleys), washing was in order. 
For two hours, basins, soap, and clothes held 
sway, and I Ve often wondered what a real 
* ' wash-lady ' ' would say to a week's wash being 
accomplished in a collapsible rubber hand 
basin (which was always collapsing) , with hot 
water which sometimes smelled of tea or 
showed signs of being heated in the mush-pot, 
with no boiling or bluing and not a flat-iron 
to finish the job. The ease and comfort of 
such an existence has taught me that there is a 
lot of unnecessary fret and worry in civilised 
life. A handkerchief which has gone through 
the motions, then hung in the fresh air and 
golden sunshine, is far sweeter than any 
laundry could ever turn out. The Indian has 
taught us a whole lot about "the simple life," 
though according to his ideas I have not quite 
graduated, for to the naked eye he appears to 
use no water at all, but our little band still 
clings to a few traditions of our ancestors. 



96 Old Indian Trails 

That day I even tried washing our dwin- 
dHng supply of rice. It had been in and out of 
the rivers so much for the past few weeks that 
it was passed upon by the family as decidedly 
"musty." With a handful of rice, the same 
amount of clean river sand, I rubbed the two 
together, then rinsed off the latter and spread 
the rice in the sun to dry. As a theory it 
was splendid. The little grey dabs of mould 
disappeared, leaving the travel-stained rice 
snowy white, but the resultant pudding, even 
with a liberal supply of raisins, retained a 
flavour which could be ignored only by one in 
a starving condition. We were not starving, 
and one of us hated the stuff at its best, so it 
was consigned to the little chipmunks. 

With laundry spread out to dry, a luncheon 
in our pockets, we all started out to inves- 
tigate Sang-Sangen' Creek just back of the 
camp. No sooner had we entered its pre- 
cincts than we found ourselves in a magnificent 
amphitheatre not over a mile long. At its 
far end descended a splendid glacier, on the 
left stood a fine mountain, and to our right 
rose a peak about nine thousand feet high. 
This we climbed and stood in the midst of 
Collie's and Stuttficld's mountains. Far away 

' Stoncy language for rice. 



Back on the Old Familiar Trail 97 

to the south we could see Mount Wilson, 
much nearer were Mounts Athabaska and 
Saskatchewan, but the peaks frowning almost 
over our heads were a bewildering gathering 
of giants which were straightened out only by 
Dr. Collie some time later. 

Our return via Tangle Creek to Wilcox Pass 
was made with far more elegance than our 
descent of that stream. There is a good trail 
on the creek's left which carries one almost 
to "Sheep Camp," and from there you are 
practically out of the woods. 

Much game is supposed to exist on the pass, 
but in our various traversings of it we have 
never come across but one sign of wild life. 
Travelling quietly over it on the fifteenth day 
of August, "K.," who was leading, suddenly 
pointed to a pair of ears just visible behind 
a rock two hundred yards ahead of us. Of 
course the binoculars were in the dufEel-bag, 
and it took some moments to see that it 
was a fox. His coat was almost black, 
with splashes of deep mahogany brown, a 
most peculiar and handsome effect. Above 
him swooped and hovered a hawk. Warn- 
ing us to stand quietly, "K." slipped for- 
ward with his rifle and then began a game of 
' ' hide-and-seek ' ' with the great rock boulders 



98 Old Indian Trails 

as a playground. For half an hour the two 
men followed the fox here and there, at times 
recognising his whereabouts only by the pres- 
ence of the hawk, which followed his every 
movement, giving the game away terribly. 
But the wily old fellow was evidently quite at 
home, the hunters with a broken front sight 
on the rifle were not, and he eventually made 
good his escape. The hawk, finding "nothing 
more doing," rose and soared away into the 
heavens, and the rest of us hurried on down 
the slope to "Jim's" camp, where the sensible 
horses had been slowly making their way for 
some time. Two months going to school was 
turning out a nice working bunch. 

Hoping to get a different view of the moun- 
tains seen from Sang-Sangen Creek, the 
following day we climbed Wilcox Peak 
(10,050 feet). With that contrariness of in- 
animate things which followed every climb we 
made during the season of 1907, the weather 
thickened in proportion to the ascent. Our 
camp was at 7500 feet, very little below timber 
line, so that there was not much to boast of in 
the mountaineering line when we reached the 
highest of the three or four peaks, but it seemed 
a weary grind to us who loved not climbing. 

Just as we seemed within a few yards of our 



Back on the Old Familiar Trail 99 

goal, when "K." was skipping along like a 
goat, and I laboriously trudging and grumbling 
behind, trying to keep him even in sight, I saw 
him disappear behind a wall of rock. Dodging 
around it I found Wilcox Peak on that side 
had been cut down as clean as a whistle, a 
sheer wall of two thousand feet at least stared 
me in the face, the rock wall loomed above, a 
two-foot ledge of rock jutted from its side 
showing "K's" route to success, while "K's" 
back disappearing behind another rock showed 
his indifference to such things as ledges and 
two-thousand-foot drops. It was too much 
for my stock of alpine courage and I yelled for 
help. He called back encouragingly, and com- 
fortingly, "Oh, that 's safe enough, hold up 
your head, don't look down!" So I meekly 
stared aloft, and followed, too scared to dis- 
obey. A few minutes later the last summit 
was reached, a cairn was found, and in it a 
small bottle whose enclosed paper recorded 
the above altitude. Our disappointment was 
keen enough when we looked off to the group 
of desired peaks and found them too enveloped 
in mist for photography to be of the slightest 
use, and so, like the King of France, "we 
climbed down again." 

About dawn the next morning I opened one 



100 Old Indian Trails 

sleepy eye, saw six inches of snow on the ground 
with plenty more following, and knew there 
would be no hurry to get to Camp Parker, five 
miles below, so turned for another nap. In my 
half dreams I heard a distant shout, and think- 
ing it was one of the men calling for a helping 
hand to bring in the horses, paid no further 
attention. Imagine my surprise, on hearing a 
clearing of the throat at our very tent-door, to 
waken fully and behold a strange, full -bearded, 
spectacled, and most respectably clad man. 
Nine weeks' trailing through the worst kind of 
brush and scrub had reduced our men to 
actual rags (not to mention what our own 
outward appearance might be) , and I confess 
to an overwhelming dazzlement at the sight 
of the gentleman's neat black rain-coat. Bow- 
ing as though in a drawing-room and dofhng 
his spotless hat, he said, "I hope I don't 
intrude?" Not wishing to be outdone in 
politeness even under such limited circum- 
stances, I struggled up as far as the confines of 
the sleeping-bag would permit, ducked as grace- 
fully as possible, and murmured "Certainly 
not." He was a truly remarkable man, for 
being a hundred and twenty -five miles from a 
railroad, two women were probably the very 
last objects he expected to find in that tent 



Back on the Old Familiar Trail loi 

in a snow-storm, and yet there was not the 
twitch of a muscle nor a quiver of the voice as 
he said, "Are there any men in this camp?" 
I pointed to the "chicken-coop," twenty yards 
away, and the next half hour " M." and I spent 
in sizing up the stranger. On his departure. 
Chief came over to make the fire, reported 
that this other outfit was camped two miles 
down the valley, that the man had started out 
in search of the trail across the Wilcox Pass, 
saw our horses feeding in the meadows below, 
and eventually found our camp. With the 
necessary information obtained as to his 
route, he had departed, leaving no clue of 
himself or companions other than that he had 
"been to Fortress Lake in '93." Courtesy of 
the trail forbade too much questioning, so we 
labelled them "timber -cruisers." Perhaps. 
Then "1893" and its significance suddenly 
popped into somebody's head, "Why, that 
was the year Dr. Coleman discovered Fortress 
Lake." Well, inwardly I decided that trail 
etiquette might go to the winds as far as I was 
concerned if we met in the valley below and 
I certainly intended to see that we did meet. 
Curiosity should take precedence of polite- 
ness. In a pelting, wet snow we got off by 
nine o'clock, straining our eyes to catch a first 



102 Old Indian Trails 

glimpse of the strangers. Sure enough, in 
fifteen minutes through the thick flakes we 
saw them coming towards us, four men and 
nine horses. Pausing to bow to our morning 
visitor, I casually asked him if in '93 he could 
have possibly met Dr. Coleman around For- 
tress Lake. "Well," he replied, '' I happen to 
be L. Q. Coleman, and that is my brother, 
the Doctor, over there." So here were we 
literally falling over the man whose maps and 
notes we had been unable to obtain before 
leaving home, whose trails and camps were all 
we had to read in the long days on the Atha- 
baska, whose name had been on our lips daily 
for weeks; it was just a little stranger than 
fiction! As our new-found acquaintances 
pitched camp very near the meeting-place, we 
made an excuse for visiting them a little later, 
and deluged the Doctor with questions till he 
must have been glad to have seen our backs 
when we said "Good-bye" and returned to 
our temporary home at the junction of the 
North Fork and Nigel Creek. 

Now that the Fortress Lake region had 
been investigated, not to our complete sat- 
isfaction but with a certain amount of cu- 
riosity satisfied, our thoughts and feet 
turned to the "West-Branch-of-the-North- 



Back on the Old Familiar Trail 103 

Fork," or as we have chosen to call it "for 
short," Nashan River. The primary object 
of this visit was that from its head-waters we 
might climb sufficiently high to obtain a view 
of the Columbia ice-fields, Outram's descrip- 
tion of which I have quoted, and to whom 
we were indebted for our curiosity. 

The trip back to Graveyard Camp was 
without event, unless good weather and low 
water be recorded, with the exception of a 
small incident which may be a finger-board of 
warning to those who have not yet been over 
the ground. About four miles north of Grave- 
yard Camp the river runs through a narrow 
rock-gorge utterly impassable for horses and 
compels the trailer to seek a way up the right 
bank of the river where a good trail leads over 
quite a high shoulder. As the men were busy 
pushing the horses along, " M." and I to aid the 
horses started ahead for the bank, which we 
took for the one we had descended a few weeks 
before, first crossing a narrow branch of the 
river. It was as harmless a looking bank as one 
could well imagine. **M." struck up first on 
what appeared a hard white clay bank, when 
to our surprise in went Bugler up to the 
cinchas. She stepped quickly from him and 
herself was instantly engulfed to the knees in a 



104 Old Indian Trails 

white sticky mire, while Bugler plunged and 
kicked and finally extricated himself, reach- 
ing the more solid ground above. Seeing 
that the packs were gaining on us rapidly, 
I left "M." floundering in the mud and with 
Nibs tried a more promising-looking part 
of the bank about twenty yards north of 
"M's" Waterloo. 

Our judgment proved as poor as " M's, " and 
down we sank into that nasty white clay. As 
poor Nibs floundered about, his feet became 
entangled in the roots of a tree and my head 
was soon in violent contact with the branches 
of the same. To save both the head and the 
horse I was forced to beat a hasty retreat by 
sliding off over his tail when I landed in the 
cold river up to the knees. 

No harm, however, was done save that those 
implicated looked as though they had been 
whitewashed, and the grown- wise trailers, 
who had been solemnly taking in the situa- 
tion from more solid ground, kept away from 
the trouble of their own accord. With cool 
deliberation they turned, walked up the river 
about one hundred yards and hit the true 
trail. 

Knowing on our first visit to this spot in the 
spring, that we would be back there later in 



Back on the Old Familiar Trail 105 

the summer, our m.en had lightened the work of 
the pack animals by caching several hundred 
pounds of food in a hunter's shack eighteen 
miles to the south of us. Taking account of 
stock that night, the larder disclosed one 
grouse, one-half pound of bacon that had seen 
better days, flour for three days, a little salt 
and a small quantity of mouldy tea, a pretty 
neat calculation for a month's absence from 
the "grub-pile" in strange country. 

The following morning the men were up at 
dawn and off down the valley for the cached 
food, leaving us mistresses of the situation 
for twenty -four hours. It was a rather 
uncanny sensation of loneliness which swept 
down our spines as we saw our preservers 
disappearing in the distance, leaving us with 
only our two saddle ponies, the wide shingle- 
fiats, and the frowning hills as protectors. 
Casting my eye around for the usual tree which 
was to be our haven in case of the untimely ar- 
rival of the ever-expected grizzly, we tidied our 
tents, saddled up our ponies, gathered together 
the cameras, and went off on a photographic 
tour. Laundry and cooking for once had to be 
abandoned. There was no soap to wash with, 
and nothing to cook, so our ordinary amuse- 
ments for the nonce, had to be abandoned. I 



io6 Old Indian Trails 

think we both felt like youngsters playing 
"hookey," — a strange sense of unaccustomed 
freedom possessing us. Alone! Really alone! 
Except for our two departed friends, not 
another human being within a hundred miles 
of us. With wistful eyes the ponies gazed 
down the long valley in the direction of their 
departed friends ; freedom such as this had no 
attractions for them. 

A mile across the flats we forced our un- 
willing steeds, set up the tripod, and proceeded 
to get a view of Pinto Peak and far-away 
Mount Wilson. Suddenly we noticed the 
horses pricking up their ears and Nibs began 
to whinny. Looking in the same direction, we 
saw coming down the river an outfit of about 
ten horses. Where was all the loneliness we 
had boasted of now? Who could this be invad- 
ing our Eden? Leaving "M." to guard the 
cameras and mounting Nibs, who evidently 
thought it was his missing companions, I 
galloped out across the flats to see who the 
intruders were. It was "Jim" for whom we 
had been looking all summer, and with him a 
charming little English lady who vvas out on 
an entomological expedition. 

It was a comical meeting there of the two of 
us, one from the civihsation of London, one 



Back on the Old Familiar Trail 107 

from Philadelphia. Shorn of every rag of 
vanity, the aristocratic little English lady 
rode out to meet me on her calico pony, clad 
in an old weather-beaten black gown, over 
her shoulder a "bug-net," yet every inch a 
lady, from her storm-swept old Panama hat 
to her scarred and battered hob-nailed shoes. 
As she gave me the bow I should have received 
from her in a drawing-room, I could but fancy 
the small figure she was saluting, as with no 
hat, clad in a boy's dark blue shirt, a scarlet 
kerchief at the neck, an old Indian beaded 
coat on, there was little of Philadelphia left 
clinging to my shoulders. 

Encouraged by a hearty invitation, the 
party decided to camp near us for a couple of 
days, and the alacrity with which we accepted 
their invitation to supper that night was a 
positive disgrace, but we were so tired of 
mouldy tea, etc., and butter and jam would be 
such a delicious change that we quite forgot 
our manners. Then it was such a treat to 
hear what some one besides ourselves had 
been doing, even though it was not from the 
outside world, and we talked far into the 
night around the camp-fire. 

The next day our guides returned with the 
food. Then there was an invitation to "our 



io8 Old Indian Trails 

house," another chat around the blazing logs, 
a lingering good-bye when they left us the 
following morning with letters for home, — 
then we returned to our usual life. 




Nashan Lake from Thompson Pass 



CHAPTER VIII 

NASHAN VALLEY, THOMPSON PASS, THE ICE- 
FIELDS OF MOUNT COLUMBIA 



As this chronicle now leads us up Nashan 
-'*■ River, I might here give our apparently 
high-handed reason for changing the well- 
known or rather lengthy name of this river, 
printed on the present maps of that region 
as " West- Branch- of -the- North-Fork- of- the- 
Saskatchewan," to "Nashan," or, in full, 
Nashan-esen (Wolverine-go-quick). It is the 
Stoney-Indian name for our friend Jim Simp- 
son, given him by his Indian admirers out of 
compliment to his speed in walking on snow- 
shoes or off. Jim's axe in this country has done 
more to make the old trails passable for future 

109 



no Old Indian Trails 

comers than any others, and this little tribute 
to his labours seems small enough ,^ — to name 
a beautiful valley and river for one who has 
helped to make a hard road easier. 

As week after week we had cast aside the 
barriers and entered those valleys of the north 
of which there is little or no description, each 
one had seemed fairer than the last. Thomp- 
son came this way in 1900 looking for a prac- 
tical pass across the Continental Divide, 
expecting to meet Stuttfield and Collie who 
were coming up the Bush River. They did 
not reach the low divide which he found, by 
several miles however, owing to the terrible 
conditions underfoot, but later named it the 
Thompson Pass. Outram entered the val- 
ley in 1902 bound for the Columbia ice- 
fields, but no one so far had taken horses 
down the western slope, though it looked, in 
our bird's-eye view of it, perfectly feasible. 

There had evidently been a favourite Indian 
hunting-ground at the gateway of this river. 
Crossing the wide flats and bearing to our right, 
a well marked trail led to a twenty-foot em- 
bankment on which stood several sets of tepee- 
poles, and bones were strewn about in every 
direction. For four miles the trail meandered 
on the hillside to the river's left, owing to soft 



Nashan Valley and Mount Columbia in 

ground in the valley below, and very beautiful 
it looked as we gazed down upon the tall 
marsh grasses fringing the clear pools and 
waving with the sweeping winds. It was near- 
ing the end of August, and even then autumn 




"Mount Alexandra and Gable Peak with frozen rivers hanging 
from summit to base " 

was stealing in with yellows and deep red 
browns to mingle with the deep greens. 

As the familiar mountains in the east dis- 
appeared behind us, we steadily crept towards 
those we had not seen before. Out from the 
folds of hills before us, rose beautiful Mount 
Lyell on our right, and as the tribulations 



112 Old Indian Trails 

underfoot increased, the view before us grew 
more splendid, for Mount Alexandra and 
Gable Peak bore steadily down upon us, with 
frozen rivers hanging from summit to base. 

The last six miles to the foot of these two 
mountains was a trial to spirit and flesh (bar- 
ring the scenery) ; the fine pebbly flats grew to 
boulders, and then to regular rocks. The 
warm day had brought down torrents of water, 
and our advance became a chase back and 
forth over exposed bars, till several times I 
wondered if we might not see either a passen- 
ger or a pack bowled over. Occasionally we 
tried the shore, only to give up the fight in the 
scrub and again take to the stones. It was 
in one of these detours that Pinky failed in his 
usually good judgment. As was customary, he 
came strolling leisurely along well behind ; we 
were fighting our way through dense brush at 
the moment and turned to our right to avoid 
an embankment on the river. Twenty yards 
from this high bank the brush became so 
thick that the leader took to a deep arm of the 
river and we all plunged in to follow him to a 
long bar out in mid-stream. With packs 
splashed, and ourselves soaked to the waists, 
we crawled out and instantly caught a glimpse 
of Pinky's white hide silhouetted against the 



Nashan Valley and Mount Columbia 113 

dark forest just above the high bank; with 
calm and meditative mien he was watching the 
last of the pack train worrying its way through 
the thick brush, plunging into the deep water, 
and dragging the soaked packs out on the 
other side. We paused to see what he intended 
to do with the situation. He craned his neck 
in the direction his companions had just gone, 
then looked over the bank, and decided to take 
a short cut. In he plunged, the waters met 
above him, and nothing but agitated ripples 
were left of him. It was probably seconds 
but it seemed minutes before the surprised 
Pinky rose to the surface. With ears flattened 
back and mane plastered to his neck, he 
emerged with a disgusted expression and 
joined us on the bar from where we had been 
watching him. The whole performance was 
so comical that we all burst out laughing. 
Shaking himself, and with one withering 
glance that took us all in, he passed us by 
and haughtily strutted ahead, every movement 
of his body showing indignation at our 
thoughtless behaviour and for the rest of 
the march, perhaps two miles, he kept far 
ahead of even the leader, never deigning 
again to notice the rabble which by this 
time would have been glad to apologise. 



114 01^1 Indian Trails 

There may be those who read these pages 
who will think that I have infused too much 
human personality into our four-footed com- 
panions of the trail. I, too, might have 
thought so once, but that time has gone by. 
A daily acquaintance with them had bred 
friendship, affection, and understanding. On 
the trail we lived with them and talked to them 
till they and we understood each other's 
movements thoroughly ; their characters were 
as individual as our own. They knew the 
master who exacted obedience, and with the 
kindness, firmness, and care which was their 
portion in that outfit, we have frequently 
started out on a long trip with apparently 
stupid, untrained horses, to return with a wise 
thinking bunch which only needed a hand to 
place the saddle and pack for them, for the 
rest they were the masters of the situation. 

But I have left Pinky trailing up Nashan 
Valley all too long, while myself riding a 
different hobby-horse. To work. Gable 
Peak and Mount Alexandra whose separate 
glaciers formed a splendid whole at the 
forefoot, seemed slowly creeping down upon 
us, rather than we upon them. Within a few 
yards of a narrow gorge, through which burst 
the waters from these "lacicrs, wc found a 



Nashan Valley and Mount Columbia 115 

level spot on which we pitched the two tents, 
and a hundred yards away a poor apology for 
horse-feed, all we had seen for the last four 
miles. The level spot was a ragged edge of the 
gravel flats, so once more we were thankful 
to be the possessors of air-beds. Just as we 
were dismounting some one said: "There 's a 
lynx!" Sure enough there was the tawny 
gentleman slowly ambling by on the other side 
of the river and looking across at us as though 
it was an everyday occurrence for him to meet 
an outfit in his afternoon strolls. With 
cameras set, two of us dropped all else and 
hurried toward him as fast as the rough 
boulders permitted in hopes of catching his 
portrait. But the distance and impediments 
were too many, and still unhurried, we saw 
our quarry spring into the river, swim calmly 
across, and trot away in the dusk of the 
forest with quite an unruffled countenance. 

With home set up and lunch devoured, and 
with the impression that houses built on rocks 
were a pretty safe investment, we strolled 
towards the gorge whose proximity forced 
necessary conversation to be carried on by 
yelling. Here enormous boulders formed a 
short, deep, picturesque canyon and beyond 
stretched a magnificent rock- strewn amphi- 



ii6 Old Indian Trails 

theatre through which flowed the stream from 
the massive ice-tongue. With only a stretch 
of imagination I could have put out my hand 
and stroked fair Alexandra's face, and patted 
the rough crags of Gable which loomed above 
the four atoms of humanity who peered aloft 
at their greatness, from that great silent 
theatre whose players had been turned to 
snow and ice. 

Reaching home we were surprised to find that 
the river, which had been twenty yards from 
our front door v/hen we left it, was a scant two 
feet away, and we began to think of spending 
the night in uncomfortable quarters on the 
steep hillside. Deferring shifting camp till 
supper was despatched, we returned to our 
tent after that meal to see that the channel 
had moved back ten feet again. This per- 
mitted the usual camp-fire and all was serene. 

Opening one eye the next morning at 5.30, 
I saw the clouds were drifting very low, but 
if raining, the roar of the gorge drowned all 
sound of it, and the most interesting item at 
the moment was that the river had again crept 
to the door of the tent and washed away every 
semblance of the great fire we had had the night 
before. Still 5.30 is no time for fretting about 
being drowned or washed out, and I nodded off 



Nashan Valley and Mount Columbia 117 

again not to wake until the chop of the axe told 
me it was seven o'clock. Then the river had 
crept yards away from us again, but had left 
a healthy little stream behind the tent which 
had washed away the kitchen fire and scattered 
the chopped wood all over the country. With 
a river that never knew its own mind five 
minutes at a time, thus preventing us from 
knowing ours, we were glad to leave that other- 
wise beautiful elbow and start up the main 
stream heading from the Thompson Pass. 

From the junction of the two streams to the 
head of the valley it was about fifteen miles, 
but not a really good feeding-ground the 
entire distance. The way was beautiful 
through gorgeous green forests with Mount 
Lyell behind and Mount Columbia beckoning 
us on. 

With tired hungry horses we camped where 
a few spears of grass through the open forest 
were only a tantalising aggravation, and the 
rest of the day was taken to search for the 
best way to get to the Thompson Pass. It 
was certainly a ghastly camp ; the rain fell in 
torrents, the horses persisted in losing them- 
selves in the thick timber and then crying 
for each other. " M." and I dried the saddle- 
blankets and cooked the meals with the rain 



ii8 Old Indian Trails 

trickling down our backs and were mighty 
glad when the men returned with the an- 
nouncement that they had found a way and 
we could be off next morning. 

The ascent of the pass was full of those 
minoT incidents which accompany the break- 
ing of a new trail with horses, the steep, 
heavily wooded hill-slopes being interspersed 
with horizontally placed rock ridges, which 
were a trial to the flesh. 

Nibs and myself had been busily getting 
acquainted for several weeks now, but I was 
still to learn a good deal more of his character. 
As he was quite a superior little chap, his 
saddle had been bought in the east, the 
cinchas of hair being my special pride. 

Climbing up one narrow rock-ledge after 
another we were making progress foot by foot, 
pausing while a tree was felled, creeping a little 
farther, and pausing again. Suddenly after a 
short bit of stiff travelling, Nibs turned his 
head and gazed at me from one soft brown eye. 
It was such a suggestive look that I patted 
him on the neck, said: "All 's well, my pet," 
and shoved ahead. In a few moments a 
worse-than-usual obstruction met us, a rock- 
ledge three feet high, a huge log resting across 
it, and a precipice beside it. To give us each 



Nashan Valley and Mount Columbia 119 

a better chance, I slid from his back and to my 
surprise the saddle slipped too. Sharply from 
the rear came the order: "Move on, you are 
holding back the packs ! " If there is one camp 
trait I do admire it is obedience, so the impulse 
was to obey promptly. Instead of quickly re- 
leasing the back cincha and throwing the saddle 
clear as I should have done, I straightened the 
saddle, climbed the rock, and told Nibs to jump. 
He did, with the inevitable result that the sad- 
dle flew back on his rump. In a flash I could 
see the consequences, — a frightened plunging 
horse, and a silly rider tossed over a precipice 
that was a hundred and fifty miles from a doc- 
tor. Doing the only thing left to do, I seized 
his bit and spoke to him. He became quiet in- 
stantly, then slowly turned his head to see what 
made the rumpus behind him, turned gently 
back, popped his soft little nose into my 
buckskin coat, and trembled with the fright 
of what he did not understand. 

Wise little Nibs! I loved him before, after 
that, — well who would n't? Chief peering 
down from above, called: "Well, I 'd like to 
see any other horse in this outfit do that; 
you 're pretty lucky ! ' ' 

Never again did I fail to examine matters 
if Nibs paused and told me something was 



120 Old Indian Trails 

wrong, and never again will I be guilty of 
buying eastern saddlery for western use. 

The second hairbreadth escape I found 
later recorded in "M's" diary. She saw it, I 
did not, though it was my hair that was in- 
volved. I copy it as she left it. "A little 
farther up we were waiting on another ledge 
for ' Chief ' to cut down a tree which blocked 
the way, the tree fell a little nearer the horses 
than he meant it to and frightened Pinto. 
Pinto jumped back, hit M., knocked her 
sprawling (her hairpins flew in every direc- 
tion), and stepped on her foot. Very painful 
for the moment, but no serious damage as I 
was afraid when I saw her roll over on 
her back with her yellow slicker arms wav- 
ing in the air, Pinto doing fancy steps over 
her." 

After these two small incidents inter- 
spersed with plenty of scrambling and 
tussling, at six thousand feet we came 
to a lovely ultramarine lake about a half 
mile in length. From its left rose a pictur- 
esque peak, and at its head stretched a fine 
rock wall from mountain-side to mountain- 
side, with spruces nestled in the ledges. 

Making our way round to the right of the 
lake the horses were soon up to their necks in 




Watchman's Peak and Lake Nashan 



122 Old Indian Trails 

alpine flowers. Columbines nodded their yel- 
low heads from stalks three feet tall, while 
deep blue larkspurs, snowy valerian, flaming 
castilleia, and golden arnicas hailed our coming 
with flying colours. 

With tents pitched in our ready-made gar- 
den, the exquisite lake lying before us and 
reflecting the rocky peak, there seemed little 
else for which to wish. As the night swept 
down upon us bringing with it the icy wind 
from the surrounding glaciers, a great camp- 
fire cast gleaming flashes across the blackening 
water^s and drove from our home the biting 
breath of the frost. 

Was it the cold sifting through the blankets 
the next morning, or was it the beauty of the 
place that woke me, or was it only the inces- 
sant tap of Pinto's bell at the first gleam of 
dawn? It matters not, they were all there; 
Lake Nashan lay stretched before us dark and 
still, and far above her towered the mountains 
tipped with the first rays of daylight. 

The rest of the camp was asleep ; I was all 
alone; all was so peaceful, it seemed more like 
a wonderful dream than reality, and I dared 
not mar it with a sound. Creeping gently 
down among the blankets, I tried to* catch a 
fugitive nap, but the picture outside kept entic- 



Nashan Valley and Mount Columbia 123 

ing me, so that at six, at the risk of snapping a 
twig and thus rousing those who needed sleep 
far more than scenery, I slipped from the com- 
forts of bed and watched the coming of the day. 
The trees, the bushes, and the hardy little 
alpine flowers were all festooned with millions 
of frost needles, and as the sun's rays touched 
them, I saw their beauty die. Two ducks 
from the near-by marsh grasses craned their 
necks toward the stranger, swam cautiously 
out, and silently paddled by, peering at me 
with bright, unafraid eyes; the amphitheatre 
of snowy summits was tipped with a rosy 
flush and the aquamarine tints of the lake were 
richer and deeper than the night before. 

There was no more going back to that bed. 
I was too afraid of missing some of the play. 
So gathering together some frosty sticks and 
a little paper from our precious horde, a bright 
fire was soon sending a straight column of 
smoke into the still air, a glow of warmth into 
an over-enthusiastic body. Then the little 
tea-kettle and I sat there and sighed as we 
watched the old sun start on his daily round. 

Breakfast an hour later tasted especially 
good, even the water-soaked coffee improving 
in flavour, and by ten o'clock we were ready 
for a tour of Thompson's Pass and any 



124 Old Indian Trails 

comfortable-looking peak whereby we might 
have a glimpse of the Columbia ice-fields 
from the south side. 

The ascent to the pass is short and sharp, 
being over and around a series of rock-ledges 
similar to those up which we had dragged the 
horses the day before. At the last ledge we 
paused and looked back on my morning dream 
now bathed in the noon sunshine. The lake, 
green as an emerald, lay like a forgotten gem at 
the foot of the rugged rock masses, our tents 
like butterflies nestled among the flowers; 
Watchman's Peak (Outram) guarded his 
charges silently; across his shoulder Mount 
Alexandra's snowy slope glistened, and in the 
north-east Mount Saskatchewan stood out 
boldly among the lesser mountains. 

Over the park-like hills all carpeted with 
troUius, snow lilies, and heather we made our 
way, till reaching the highest point of the pass, 
we stood at 6800 feet and looked toward the 
west. A richly timbered valley spread before 
us, from which flowed a small stream and 
joined the main river coming from a valley at 
right angles to the one down which we looked. 

I do not recollect seeing a sign of sheep 
or goat throughout this short but beautiful 
climb, but the turning of the sod by bears in 




pq 



125 



126 Old Indian Trails 

search of rodents, which form for them such a 
delicious meal, was remarkable. It was for all 
the world as though a lot of pigs had been 
turned loose in an orchard. In many places 
I felt that my arch enemy of the hills (the griz- 
zly) was just around the comer, so kept close 
to Chief's heels with a sub-conscious sentiment 
that he might be chewed up first, for there 
was no tree to climb that would do me much 
good. 

The Bush Valley from this point looked so 
free from trouble and care, it was very hard 
to realise that it was the cause of so much 
annoyance to Dr. Collie and his party in 1900. 

Turning our eyes from the valley to Mount 
Bryce on our right, two pairs of enquiring eyes 
gauged his slopes for a possible short ascent. 
Possibly from no other point is this mountain 
so impressive as from the Thompson Pass. 
It looked very compact with its snowy ridges 
standing forth boldly in the sun, and a fine 
glacier-tongue sweeping down to the level of 
the pass. A rocky spur of the mountain still 
farther round to the north held out the hope 
for which we were looking, so with camera, 
tripod, and a cake of chocolate we started up 
its shaley, shifting, sliding slope. 

After a hard grind with "two-feet-up, slip- 



Nashan Valley and Mount Columbia 127 

back one," we stood at the height of our ambi- 
tion and looked into another world. Thirty 
miles to the north lay Mount Columbia, but 
far less impressive than the view we had had of 
it from the Athabaska side. Between us and 




Columbia Ice-fields 



its pure white summit lay that frozen, snow- 
packed, silent sea of which we had read in 
Outram's book. From this point we could 
easily imagine the course he took from his 
camp in the valley south of our position, for 
his long tramp over the ice-fields to the moun- 



128 Old Indian Trails 

tain-top. The Twins to the right of Columbia, 
(one a rocky, the other a snow-covered peak) 
were also very interesting, and looking to the 
west and across the Selkirk Range, there 
seemed mountains enough left to last an am- 
bitious climber for a century. 

But it was three o'clock. The winds were 
biting cold, fingers were growing numb as they 
manipulated the camera, and though all so 
rare a sight, won only by a tough scrimmage, 
we were glad to duck under the ridges and slip 
and slide down the scree to the grassy micad- 
ows of the pass. 

Reaching the precipitous rock ridges once 
more and looking over, the picture indeed 
was fine. The faint tinkle of the horse - 
bell was heard almost beneath us, the lake 
looked like glass, and in the evening shadows 
was more emerald than ever; "M.," doing 
a bit of forgotten laundry, was sending out 
great ringlets across the w^ater in her en- 
ergy, and a blue column of smoke ascending 
from the camp-fire must surely smell of fried 
grouse and bacon if only our noses had been 
long enough to sniff it. 

A long "Yoho" from us, a faint reply, and 
quickly dropping down a thousand feet, we 
were soon home by the fire to a nice sup- 



Nashan Valley and Mount Columbia 129 

per of grouse, bacon, apple-sauce, and beans. 
Does n't it sound good, and don't you envy 
us such a feast, when the ceiling of our ban- 
quet-hall was the blue sky of the Rockies, 
the walls the brave old hills themselves, 
and the orchestra a hermit-thrush singing 
his vesper notes? To be sure our table 
had no legs, and the cloth was an old pack- 
mantle which had seen much service, but 
health was good, hearts were light, and no 
ripple of worry from the outside world could 
touch us. 

The three days at Lake Nashan were an 
oasis in the desert of rain which had been our 
portion all summer. Domestic duties on the 
last day were conducted with hot water, soap, 
darning needles, and stray buttons, and ended 
with a rosy sunset and brilliant stars,- — a sure 
portent of storm. Consequently it was a great 
surprise when Pinto wakened me at five o'clock 
next morning (by chewing our front-door mat) , 
to find the air as keen as Christmas, the frost 
covering everything, and the lake with not a 
ripple on it» Photography waits for no one, so 
I bounded forth with camera and tripod, raced 
hither and yon in the frosty air, and returned 
breathless, successful, and half frozen to be 
asked if I had lost my senses. No, it was 



130 Old Indian Trails 

only a case of intoxication where the cold and 
beauty had gone to the brain. 

With the usual desire to get under way as 
early as possible, every one was "stepping 
lively" after breakfast, and I frantically try- 
ing to load plate-holders in the back of the 
tent, when there came such a crash and 
clatter it sounded as though the whole 
bunch of horses, was rushing down upon 
me. Fearing to light-strike the plates, I 
remained rooted to the spot, till informed 
that order was restored. " K's" riding pony, 
a pale, yellow, aenemic, nervous thing, not over- 
blessed with sense, had been tied to the fire- 
place. For some unknown reason he took 
fright, uprooted the same, and went smashing 
through the camp dragging the whole thing 
with him. Such movements were only momen- 
tarily disconcerting however, Whitey's actions 
were quite frowned upon by the rest of the 
family, and order was quickly restored. 

It was hard to go from that beautiful place, 
to leave the little lake to the butterflies, the 
gophers, the ducks, the bears, and the flowers. 
But neither our coming nor going left one 
ripple on her placid face ; born to loneliness she 
would not miss us. The day remained fair 
and quiet. Mount Brycc's hoary head shim- 



Nashan Valley and Mount Columbia 131 

mered in the sunlight as we dropped over the 
hill into the timber, and in an hour Mount 
Lyell, who had persistently remained hidden 
on our way up, stood forth boldly in the 




Mount Lyell from Nashan River 

elbow of the valley toward which we were 
travelling. 

Finding a good trail on our left, we were 
not compelled to stick to the river and again 
visit the base of Mount Alexandra; but pre- 
ceded by a friendly -looking lynx which trotted 
ahea.d of us for some time on the trail, we 



132 Old Indian Trails 

emerged on Camp Content, an old camp- 
ground of Jim's. 

Our march of recession down the Nas- 
han was made in pomp and splendour. The 
day was very warm, and great thunder-clouds 
rolled across the sky where no clouds had 
been for three whole days. Alexandra, 
Lyell, and Gable Peaks looked uncommonly 
fine decked in their fresh gowns of snow. 
We wished it were possible to sit facing the 
horses' tails, to take in all we were leaving 
behind; not that the horses would mind, but 
though the cold nights were shrinking the 
river very materially, there were many fords 
left where we were forced to tuck up our 
toes to avoid a wetting. Then down came the 
rain, out came the slickers, and we entered 
Graveyard Camp to the accompaniment of 
a deluge, pitched our tents among the bones, 
and gathered sodden sticks for the necessary 
fire. But it 's never home at Graveyard unless 
it does pour, so no one minded. 




In the Braseau Valley 



CHAPTER IX 



OFF TO THE BRAZEAU COUNTRY 



A FTER a day's rest, our films developed, 
^~^ all food, save that needed for our trip 
into the Brazeau country, cached safely, we 
started off again to a new corner of the globe. 
Two days in camp seemed about all any of us 
could endure with equanimity; the spirit of 
the gypsy haunts those valleys and enters the 
breasts of those who pass the portals, we 
were now gypsies heart and soul. 

We had two objective points in view: to find 
Brazeau Lake discovered and named by Dr. 
Coleman in 1892, and then search for a lake 
said by the Stoney Indians to lie north of the 
Brazeau and called by them Chaba Imne or 

133 



134 Old Indian Trails 

Beaver Lake. Not that the Indians had told 
us anything of this lake (they are too afraid of 
the white man trespassing upon their hunting- 
grounds), but they had mentioned its exist- 
ence to our friend Jim and he had passed the 
information on for what it was worth. Our 
way was via Camp Parker which lies at the 
junction of the North Fork and Nigel Creek. 
Parker, besides being beautifully located, is 
a very popular camp, as horse-feed is to be 
had there in unlimited quantities. But alas 
for the soullessness of the average camper! 
When he has drained the last drop from the 
condensed milk-can, has finished the maple 
syrup, or cleaned up the honey-jar, he drops 
the useless vessel on the spot, and Camp 
Parker has consequently developed into a rub- 
bish heap. But from long experience I realise 
that it is useless to ask the rubbish-maker to 
place a stone in his empty cans and toss them 
in the river or into a hole, and the other 
average camper will go on to the end of time 
tripping over the objectionable stuff. 

So, though it was September the 8th and the 
best part of the summer gone, we started again 
for valleys new to us. As we left Camp Parker 
we found the trail to Nigel Pass led us via the 
creek of the same name, first through a park- 



Off to the Brazeau Country 135 

like forest, then over high grass-covered slopes, 
and finally surmounting the last alpine-flow- 
ered ridge we turned for a long look back. 
Mount Saskatchewan stood out above all other 



r" 




Piougliing through the Snow in Xigcl Pciss 

peaks and was easily recognised by its marked 
horizontal stratifications, but Nigel Peak had 
lost some of its fine symmetry from the 
different point of view. 



136 



Old Indian Trails 



At the summit of the pass, the well-marked 
trail we had followed, died away on the bare 
rocks but was quickly taken up on turning to 
the right, crossing the ridge, dropping into 
a short gully, and climbing a few yards to 
the stony slopes of the mountain facing us. 




Nigel Pass and Peak 

The descent from the pass was steep, rug- 
ged, beautiful but quite unphotographable. A 
pretty little twin fall greeted us at the foot of 
the shaley hillside and formed the beginning 
of the main branch of the Brazeau. This 
branch, till its junction with the waters 
from Brazeau Lake, runs through a fine open 



Off to the Brazeau Country 137 

valley about thirty miles long, and the trail 
was undoubtedly of Indian manufacture. 

About fifteen miles down the valley, seeing 
better feed on the other side, we crossed the 
river and found a much more travelled trail 
than the one we had been following. With 
saddles and packs tossed off, the horses all 
hobbled, and minds turned to camp arrange- 
ments, we looked up to find that every last 
horse but Pinky had ignored all the surround- 
ing good feed and betaken himself across 
the river to mere pickings on the other side, 
■ — such is the contrariness of a trail horse! 
Pinky had meditated a moment too long and 
for obvious reasons was nabbed and picketed. 

"Going" on the Brazeau for two days and 
not a lake in sight was getting a little trying and 
monotonous, so after a hurried lunch, in spite 
of awful antipathy to climbing, I decided to 
join forces with "K." and see if by chance that 
lake could be located. A stony ridge on the 
opposite side of the river looked as though 
from its summit one might peer into two 
or three valleys which apparently converged 
several miles east of us, and it seemed as 
though Brazeau Lake might lie in one of 
them. The two of us mounting the disgusted 
Pinky sallied across the torrential stream, the 



138 Old Indian Trails 

rear passenger expecting at any moment to slip 
into a watery grave ; then tethering our steed 
for the return trip, we struck off up the 
scrubby hill. At about 7000 feet, on emerging 
from the thick timbers, we looked below and 
had our first glimpse of the lake. Unlike most 
of the lakes in those mountains it seemed ut- 
terly devoid of colour and quite uninteresting 
from that altitude; very long and narrow, it 
was fed from large glaciers at its northern end, 
and from these rose a fine snowy peak. When 
a few months later we obtained Coleman's 
report on his visit to this section, a paper 
which would have been of inestimable value 
to us at the time, we found he had called this 
peak "Mount Brazeau," had made an unsuc- 
cessful attempt to climb it, and considered it 
a mountain over 11,000 feet high. Just at 
dusk, weary but successful, we stumbled upon 
Pinky at the river's edge, mounted him, and 
ferried over, where emerging into the light of 
the camp-fire, the sizzling bacon and a big fmit- 
cake looked wonderfully good to appetites 
sharpened on the scree of the mountain-top. 
It was September the 9th when we crossed 
the high shoulder of a mountain, dropped 
down to the main stream, forded it, continued 
up the river's left bank for a mile, and came 



Off to the Brazeau Country 139 

upon one of the most beautiful camp-grounds 
I ever saw. Crossing an open meadow of 
rich tall grass in which flowers blue, red, and 
yellow grew, we entered a little theatre whose 
walls were of spruces. The stage had at one 
time been set for an Indian hunting-party. 
There stood the tepee-poles as the actors had 
used them last, — five lodges. But the grass 
waved there untrod, moss covered the long- 
deserted fire-places, and probably many of 
those who had last played their part there had 
gone to the Great Theatre of all. Goat and 
sheep bones, bleached by many summers' 
suns, lay strewn about, a little circle of 
symmetrical pebbles (a favourite plaything of 
the forest child) told of the sometime presence 
of children, and a crudely fashioned horse lay 
on a crumbling log. It was all such a pathetic 
story, such a bit of the savage life before the 
days of reservations, when whole families took 
to the trail for the fall hunt, the bucks to 
bring down the game, the squaws to skin the 
animals and smoke the meat; the children to 
play at the life which for their elders held 
such little joy. Yes, a deserted stage, the 
actors gone and for many of them "lights 
out." 

As the day was still young we regretfully 



140 Old Indian Trails 

left the beautiful spot and again took up the 
old well-beaten trail we had followed all morn- 
ing. The outlet of the lake was reached after 
half a mile, along v/hich distance ancient blazes 
on the trees pointed to many a line of traps; 
what a wonderful large and small game country 
it must have been! We had had an uncom- 
monly wet summer, one cold cheerless day 
following another, so that the traverse of that 
lovely six-mile lake in the brilliant sunshine, 
in spite of stones and fallen timber, was a 
perfect treat. 

A none too satisfactory camp was made at 
the upper end of the lake where I cannot 
recollect our horses having much to eat, but 
they would have to remember, as many times 
before, a few of the good meals in the past and 
trust to better days to come. 

With the day gone, the stars came forth one 
by one till the heavens were brilliant, but as the 
last pine-root fell into glowing coals, and we 
counted how many blankets we could stand on 
so balmy a night, there struck upon our ears a 
mutter of distant thunder. With the gentle 
pat-pat of the first drops of the coming storm 
(the sweetest, laziest music of the trail) we 
dropped asleep. Somewhere toward midnight 
I waked as a blinding flash of lightning lit 




pq 

'a 
c 

A! 



pq 



141 



142 Old Indian Trails 

up for an instant the tent -walls. The game 
was on. It seemed as though the giants of the 
mountains were playing pitch and toss with a 
mighty ball, which, as it bounded from crag 
to crag with roll and rumble and roar, made the 
four listeners feel their insignificance with the 
great battle raging above them. The rain 
came down in torrents; the giants tossing their 
ball miles away, took up another, tossed it on, 
and I gladly ducked under the waterproof 
covers leaving the old fellows to fight it out. 
About 5.30 the next morning I roused to 
the fact that the tent-wall was within an inch 
of my nose, and something very heavy resting 
on the bed. Wriggling gently round I saw 
"M." calmly viewing the situation from her 
comer of the tent. The ridge-pole had sagged 
so completely that there was just about a half- 
inch left till it would drop from the cross poles 
in front. If there were pounds of snow on 
my side poor " M." was pinned down by three 
times that amount. She had n't budged, she 
dared not, and the snow was still falling thick 
and fast. Not possessing her calm and unex- 
citable disposition, I yelled for the life-guard, 
pulled myself out of my bag, bounded from 
beneath the danger, and ficd to the open, meet- 
ing the rescue-party on the way. They, w^ak- 



Off to the Brazeau Country 143 

ened from a sound sleep, looked as though, 
they thought it a case of mountain-lions or 
bears. The great weight of snow was quickly 
beaten off, a prop for the ridge-pole placed in- 
side, everybody wished he had had a camera for 
the other body, and as there was no thought of 
trailing for that day through a foot of freshly 
fallen snow in strange country, all retired 
again to enjoy the uncommon luxury later of 
a nine o'clock breakfast, for, on the days of 
march, breakfast was usually at the festive, 
sometimes chilly, hour of six; and like many 
another tonic, the dose was often hard to 
swallow, but the results were fine if the days 
were hot or wet, and the long lazy afternoons 
a splendid reward for the bitter pill. 

For two days we lay impatiently in camp 
watching that persistent and aggravating 
snow, fearful lest the Indian trail to and over 
the pass to the mysterious lake be cut off for 
that year. With the first clearing weather, 
the horses were brought in with frozen 
hobbles, with icicle-bedecked tails, and camp 
moved nine miles up the valley over a well- 
defined trail. Our hopes mounted with the 
sun, for surely that trail led to something. Ap- 
parently it did,' — to a great rock wall where the 
boulders as high as tenement houses lay piled 



144 Old Indian Trails 

up for five hundred feet, utterly choking off all 
advance. We gazed at it and at each other 
hopelessly, smiled grimly, and set up our 
homes on the gravel-flats. 

No one was willing, however, to think the 
Indians had ever stopped there, and in the 
afternoon an exploring party ventured forth 
afoot, climbed around the objectionable stone- 
pile, and looked down upon a high fair 
valley of grass and dead flowers, and most 
welcome of all, — the lost trail. Descend- 
ing to this valley, we started back on the 
well -beaten way, and found as fine a bit 
of trail as we had so far met. Over and 
around these great rocks we took it up foot 
by foot, and tumbled into camp, jubilant, as 
sure of a pass and the new lake now as though 
we had actually seen it. 

The crowning day of our expectations ar- 
rived with clouds settling around us like a 
night-cap. But just as the outfit was in 
order for the last ascent, the cap lifted, and 
our spirits and the horses mounted to- 
gether the devious, winding, hidden way in 
the giant stone-pile. Beyond stretched the 
open meadow, then stiff forest-clad slopes. 
Timber-line was reached and passed, grassy 
slopes succeeded, hope held, and still we 



Off to the Brazeau Country 145 

climbed. And then the grass failed us and 
dwarf willows took its place. Here and there 
a bit of alpine goldenrod still held its head 
bravely against the frost, and frozen little for- 
get-me-nots drooped theirs ; to right and to left 
of us, rocks ever rocks, and on the mountain- 
sides ahead, miles of glaciers closing in about 
us. The higher peaks of this unknown coun- 
try were shut away from our eager eyes by 
the low, tantalising clouds from which came 
flurries of snow, and the icy winds shrieked 
about us. 

On we stumbled through the deepening 
snow, sometimes on, sometimes off our horses 
(it was so perishingly cold !) , till we could have 
been at little less than 8500 feet, and still 
no gateway opened in those limitless walls to 
let us through and down into some warm 
valley with an unnamed lake hidden away 
in it. 

Beyond all sign of verdure a halt was called, 
and a tour of inspection made. It was cer- 
tainly a dreary scene. Only the rocky niches 
could hold the powdery snow against the 
hurricane, leaving the black forbidding cliffs 
to stand in bold outline against the wintry 
sky. From out the clouds to our left and be- 
fore us, fell glacier after glacier forming a 



146 



Old Indian Trails 



semicircular frontage of quite two miles. In 
a rock-bound valley below us was the only bit 
of colour in the whole scene, two cold steel-blue 
alpine lakes. A dreary, weary, hopeless waste, 



fin:?? 




" It was certainly a dreary scene " 



and not a gleam of sunshine to lighten our 
lagging steps! 

While in bitterness of spirit " M. " and I took 
in the woe-beg one condition, and stamped our 
feet and chafed our chilled fingers. Chief and 
"K.," on foot, were climbing the final knoll to 
look into the last beyond. Our reveries were 



Off to the Brazeau Country 147 

suddenly broken by a sharp yell and violent 
gesticulations toward the great black moun- 
tain opposite us. We had not the faintest idea 
what to look at, and saw only a perpendicular 
wall a thousand feet high whose side face 
seemed covered with sheet ice. In a few 
moments the men joined us. On the last rise 
they had surprised (and been surprised by) a 
band of mountain-sheep. The beautiful crea- 
tures had probably never seen a himian being 
before, or if so, only their arch enemy the 
Indian hunter; both parties had stood para- 
lysed for a second, when the sheep, on the 
alert, had turned and fled up the precipitous 
icy rock-face faster than our eyes could follow 
them. It was easier to note their progress 
by the falling stones which their little feet 
loosened, than to follow their quickly moving 
bodies against the dark rocks. Even the 
most skilled mountain-climber would scarce 
have attempted the difficult route over which 
they bounded as though crossing a meadow 
of upland grass. Reaching the high and in- 
accessible crags they paused, and gazed upon 
us far below ; then a magnificent ram appeared 
to take the lead. The others disappeared, 
but the massive head of the leader with his 
great horns stood motionless against the grey 



148 Old Indian Trails 

sky, his attitude alert, his body immovable. 
Only as we moved back and down the valley 
could we see that he shifted his position suffi- 
ciently to keep us in view. 

Such a picture! The dreary wastes of 
naked rock, the cold glistening glaciers all 
about us, the early snows in the unex- 
posed niches, the dying alpine flowers at 
our feet, then far aloft clinging to the great 
black crags outlined against an angry sky, 
that emblem of the vanishing wilderness, 
the Rocky Mountain sheep! 

It was intensely interesting to watch them, 
but the day was growing late, the men reported 
that beyond the knoll it was utterly impossible 
to drag a horse, and we had far to return. 
Cold and discouraged, with mouths watering 
for those mutton-chops so completely out of 
reach, we consoled ourselves with the real 
beauty of the statuesque creatures looking 
down upon us, and as we could not get them, 
waved them a generous "good-bye" and 
meekly descended all those hills of weariness 
we had been six to eight hours climbing. 

There was just one solution for that well- 
defined trail which had so insidiously led us on, 
i.e., so numerous were the signs of wild life 
that many an Indian must have led his horse 



Off to the Brazeau Country 149 

to those far cHffs to bring down the trophies 
of the chase ; and yet — ^well, I 'd Hke to take the 
Stoney Indian up there who was responsible 
for such a trudge, and see if we really might 
have pushed through after all. 

That night the disappointed explorers 
camped above the big rock-pile with the 
thermometer standing at 20° and a fine snow 
sifting down. The next day that instrument 
refusing to emerge from the twenties, we 
dawdled in camp, shampooed with snow-water, 
and anxiously scanned the sky as well as the 
receding bacon, counted how few of the fall 
weeks remained, and the distance yet from a 
railroad track. 




Looking up the Cataract Fais 



CHAPTER X 



JONAS PASS AND A PAIR OF SNOW-BLIND EYES 



CNOW-STORM after snow-storm swept 
^ across our trail as we retraced our dis- 
appointed steps down Brazeau Lake and up 
the south side of the stream flowing from 
Nigel Pass. But discouraging as the condi- 
tions were, the nearness of Jonas Pass and 
its reputed grandeur tempted us to stop a 
couple of days to take a look at it. Camp 
was pitched opposite Cataract Pass (our home- 
ward route), and the next morning, taking 
all the horses and enough of our diminished 
stores to last three days, we plodded up a very 
steep hill by a well-marked trail, soon struck 
snow, and stuck to it. At the summit, the 

150 





151 



152 Old Indian Trails 

sun broke forth brilliantly, and the horses 
plunging and stumbling to their cinchas in 
snow, we made a slow and weary march 
across and down the north slope of this glow- 
ingly described pass. Tracks of birds, foxes, 
rabbits, and other small animals entertained us 
to some extent, but refused to take my mind 
completely from a pair of dark glasses re- 
posing forty miles away in our cache at the 
North Fork. 

The scenery for which we were enduring 
so much discomfort failed to prove very ex- 
citing, and not till we caught sight of a fine 
black bear a quarter of a mile ahead of us, 
very busily engaged pawing for berries beneath 
the snow, did any of us rouse from the leth- 
argy which had settled upon us all. 

"K." was out of the saddle removing his rifle 
almost before any one could remonstrate with 
him; then he suddenly remembered an accident 
of a few days before, when the front sight of 
said rifle had come in violent contact with 
some harder substance and removed it bodily 
from its point of tisefulness. He was a good 
shot, however, and could not bear to let one 
of the finest pelts of the summer go, for the 
mere absence of a front sight. While the rest 
of us held the horses back, "K." slipped quietly 



A Pair of Snow-Blind Eyes 153 

forward and the next moment was out of 
sight. 

The bear still pawed in the snow for his 
berries. We waited. Then came a loud re- 
port. The bear raised his head and looked 
about. Was he hit? A second report followed ; 
the listening bear shook himself savagely and 
started across the valley in the direction **K." 
had gone. The next few moments to the 
watchers were uncomfortable in the extreme 
and we waited for the third shot. Nothing 
came. When sufficient time had elapsed for 
"K." to have skinned the bear or the bear to 
have made a meal of him, we moved up. It 
looked very strange, there was the point in the 
snow where "K." had knelt to fire at the bear, 
there beside his footprints were those of a 
bleeding bear, the blood-spots trailing off up- 
hill, then we saw "K." had followed him, and 
silence still reigned about. It was very cold, 
the snow was at least a foot deep, and we were 
all tired, but where was *'K."? 

Chief built a fire and again we waited, the 
horses stood about and occasionally doubled 
up and tried to lie down with their heavy 
packs. Waiting at last seemed useless, and 
we started ahead to look for some very neces- 
sary feed. One hundred yards from this 



154 Old Indian Trails 

resting point we took up *'K's" trail; he was 
following the bloody tracks of the wounded 
bear which was travelling down the valley, and 
we with the hungry horses followed on behind. 

Gradually the snow disappeared, the sun 
was setting, a chill wind swept up the valley, 
no feed was to be found to right or to left, 
nor did "K." materialise. We finally made 
camp on the only open spot that was not 
covered with trees, and it was covered with 
stones. Just as the last tired horse was un- 
packed "K." walked into camp, a weary and 
disgusted hunter. His second shot had hit 
the bear, the next three cartridges had missed 
nre, he had followed the wounded animal for 
miles in the snow and at last lost it on a rock 
slide . We were very glad to get " K . " back safe 
and sound, the pelt amounting to very little 
to us, who had been stretched so long on the 
rack of suspense. 

That one night on the far side of Jonas 
Pass finished the region for every one of our 
party. The poor horses, weary with the 
long drag of nine miles up the pass and five 
down on the other side, with nothing but 
heather on which to make a meal, were in 
forlorn condition. As for us, anchored on a 
stone-pile and held there by the same, we were 



A Pair of Snow-Blind Eyes 155 

in momentary fear of being uprooted and 
blown back up the pass by the high wind 
which had now become a hurricane. The 
smoke, from the very small fire which we 
dared have in that blast, swept into our tent 
and eyes, so that by 7 130, after a supper which 
tasted like chilled candle-grease, I crept to bed 
with painfully sore eyes, and wished I was 
back on the Brazeau. 

Not a lingering look was dropped behind as 
we left that miserable camp the next morning 
and hurried back across the blinding wastes of 
snow. The hungry horses trudged faithfully 
and doggedly through the deep, sticky stuff, 
now warm and yielding from a chinook wind ; 
but once over the summit they hurried down, 
slipping and sliding, anything to get to the 
good feed which they knew awaited them in 
the Brazeau Valley. 

Cataract Pass will always remain a hideous 
nightmare to me. Thoroughly blinded by this 
time from two days' sunshine on snow, my 
eyes were bandaged, and I let Nibs follow as 
best he could, close behind Chief who was in 
the lead. Now Nibs is nothing if not clever, 
but he certainly did not take any account of 
twigs and branches which concerned any 
other head than his own. 



156 Old Indian Trails 

All went well in the open, but the moment 
we struck timber, bang went the branches, 
scratch went the trees, and an occasional tear 
of self-pity fell on the passing landscape. 

But if troubles were numerous in the wood, 
the plot thickened on the snow-laden heights 
for all. Any sign of trail was completely 
buried under from one to three feet of dry 
powdery snow, through which the horses broke 
to the otherwise undetected boulders beneath. 
Time and again they fell, almost disappeared, 
struggled up, and floundered on. The trail- 
breaker crunched doggedly along, old Pinto 
plunged and tumbled just behind, the saddle- 
horses came next in the procession, the snow- 
blind eyes were of little use in finding where the 
last hoof had trod, the sympathetic friend 
just behind was helpless to aid, and the rest 
of the band, urged and yelled at by turns, 
completed the forlorn procession. At the 
summit of the pass was a frozen lake and I 
believe the sight was a very fine one, but 
personally it took photographs to prove it 
later. Over the crest and down, the way was 
good, bad and indifferent, the "bad" being 
caused by former enormous snow-slides, which 
had strewn the way with fallen timber. 

It was now the 27th of September, already 




157 



158 Old Indian Trails 

we had lost three days out of schedule time, 
the food we had counted upon for this last 
side-trip was getting uncomfortably low, the 
main cache was sixty miles away by trail, 
so the order went forth that we must make a 
couple of forced marches to the Saskatchewan 
Plains, where we could at least get a few 
pounds of flour and bacon from Tom Wilson 
before ascending the river to our own cache 
at Graveyard Camp. I confess to a huge 
lump in the throat at the thought of doing 
double duty on the trail practically blind, but 
to whimper over a pair of eyes seemed weak 
indeed, with hunger as an alternative for the 
crowd, so there was nothing to do but to crawl 
up in the saddle and trust to getting down 
whole again. Fortunately the predicament 
was obvious, even to Nibs himself, and the 
httle fcUow was led ignominiously the next 
ten miles by the halter-shank, thoroughly 
appreciating that something was wrong and 
treating his burden as though it were a basket 
of eggs. 

In spite of the united care of the family, on 
reaching Pinto Lake and hearing the welcome 
order to dismount, there w^ere several nasty 
blows to remember, sundry buttons torn off, 
and bruises galore. Everybody?- was now awake 



A Pair of Snow-Blind Eyes 159 

to the fact that there could be no further 
thought of proceeding, and a day's hard work 
for the men by remaining, for they must cross 
the Pinto Pass, whose troubles they had as- 
sailed from the other side the year before, 
and dear knows if they could get a horse across 
to bring back the heavy loads. But certain 
it was that beyond that pass lay our cache, 
and food we must have. 

With the sensations of a criminal, I listened 
to the preparations for the attempted climb 
next day. The three strongest horses were 
chosen, and ropes, pack-mantles, and saddles 
laid out. At 5 a.m. I heard whisperings, the 
crackling of a small fire, then the snap of 
twigs beneath the horses' feet, and knew they 
were off. At 8 : 30 good eyes, assisted by a pair 
of binoculars, made out the outline of one 
horse on the sky-line, in a little while a second, 
and then a third. For a few moments five 
black spots dotted the top of the snow-ridge 
as though taking breath, and then stepped 
from sight, and we turned about to find the 
bannock as black as a pot, burned! 

As usual, washing and photography filled in 
the hours, though the semi-blind being rather 
useless at such accomplishments kept herself 
employed gathering in a large supply of logs 



i6o Old Indian Trails 

for what might be a very necessary beacon for 
the home-comers. 

The day passed, we ate our lonely supper, 
listened and waited, but they did not come; 
washed up our dishes and sat there in the 
gloom still listening. With the twinkle of 
the first star, and croak of the frogs in the 
near-by swamp, we began to throw on the 
laboriously gathered logs; threw them on till 
the black spruces stood out like spectres in 
the glare. Even the owls hooted at us by 
this time. It grew quite dark, a little breeze 
sprang up, and suddenly it bore to us a very 
distant " Yoho ! " Everything else was forgot- 
ten, on went a log, and yet another, the little 
breeze brought a nearer call, the preciously 
hoarded wood was thrown recklessly into the 
flames, and in a half hour the men stumbled 
in weary and hungry. "Hungry?" "Yes." 
"Tired?" "No." (Great relief to the one 
responsible for so much trouble.) We flew 
to frying the prepared bacon and potatoes 
(pridefully adding a couple of ten-inch trout 
to the feast) , while the packs from the three 
horses were being quickly tossed to the 
ground. 

Tired did I say, and they denied it? With 
the last pack-saddle removed and halters off. 



A Pair of Snow-Blind Eyes i6i 

— no need for hobbles,' — the three horse 
which we expected to see scurry off into the 
dark bush where the leader's bell was dis- 
tinctly audible, slowly betook themselves a 
little beyond the pale of the camp-fire and 
lay down. No use to ask further if the day 
had been a hard one, — we knew. 

When pipes were lighted and a little more 
wood piled on, we gathered round to hear the 
events of the day. The distance from camp 
to cabin was fifteen miles. On nearing the 
game-trail at the top, which we had found and 
slid down the year before, they came upon a 
large mass of old winter's snow. In this 
they were compelled to cut footing for the 
horses and lead them up one by one to the 
ice-encrusted rocks which were the last 
barrier. 

Across the summit of the pass the way 
was easy enough, and the blazes on the 
east side of the pass, which they had cut 
in 1906, did away with any trouble at the 
far end of the line. But there are limita- 
tions to horse mountaineering, specially when 
on the return they were loaded with two 
hundred pounds of food apiece; and the way 
being over ice-bound rocks, then fields of 
frozen snow, and lastly a steep descent through 



i62 Old Indian Trails 

unbroken forest, it had all told on the staunch 
old standbys Fox, Buck, and Brownie, and 
they showed the effect of the trip for some 
time after. 

In the shack where they found all in good 
condition, were two notes from "Jim." We 
had been out fifteen weeks and this was the 
first mail we had received in all that time. It 
was touch and go between that note and a can 
of freshly-opened maple-syrup as to which we 
enjoyed the most, but I think the note took 
precedence. It was written on paper torn 
from a fruit-can and ran somewhat in this 
manner : He had started out to stake timber 
at Fortress Lake and while camped near 
Wilson Creek on the north side of the Sas- 
katchewan, his horses had crossed the river 
on him during the night and, as he said, the 
thermometer being somewhat less than seven- 
ty below zero at the time, he did not care to 
swim the river to get them, so he stood on the 
bank opposite them for a while, talked to them, 
told them what he thought of them, and speci- 
fied where he hoped they would go to next, etc., 
and then lit out on foot to make some tall 
crow-hops northward, expecting to finish up 
his round trip in ten days. The first letter 
being written on September the 13th and the 



A Pair of Snow-Blind Eyes 163 

second one at the same place on the 20th, 
the distance being about two hundred miles, 
the "Rev. James" certainly deserves his 
Indian title, *' Wolverine-go-quick." 




" Two tepees nestled among the trees " 



CHAPTER XI 

ON THE GOLDEN PLAINS OF THE SASKATCHEWAN 

'"PHE distance from Pinto Lake via Cata- 
* ract Creek to the Saskatchewan River 
is about twenty-five miles; it has been a 
favourite highway for centuries, as the well- 
worn trails show, and the fine fishing at the 
lake still brings a small band of Stoneys there 
year by year. 

The red hunters' camp-sites, many tepee- 
poles, and bones galore lined the route; fires 
for years have swept hither and yon, so it was 
not altogether an attractive trail after leaving 
the lake. 

164 




The Beacon in Cataract Valley 



165 



i66 Old Indian Trails 

Mount Coleman, still decked with the snows 
which had been our undoing in the Brazeau 
country, made a great showing in the brill- 
iant sunshine the morning of our depart- 
ure. Near-by hills, however, soon shut the 
rugged old fellow from sight, leaving us a 
fine isolated peak, whose summit at first ap- 
peared only as a large knob, which changing to 
a wedge as we receded from it, remained in 
sight almost to the Saskatchewan, and for his 
guardianship we named him our "Beacon." 

From the clear crisp atmosphere of the 
higher valleys we now plunged down upon the 
golden Kootenai Plains on September the 26th. 
Storms may rage north, south, and west, but 
they seldom invade this peaceful spot, where 
only the soft chinook winds blow almost con- 
stantly, and consequently our arrival was 
heralded by millions of sand-flies. Into e^^es, 
ears, noses and mouths of man, woman and 
beast, they rushed. The poor horses, free for 
several weeks from such pests, were frantic, 
and rushed ceaselessly about unable to enjoy 
the grass which w^as there in abundance on the 
Cataract Flats and for which they had prob- 
ably been longing for the last two days. 

Temporarily the w^ind was not blowing, so 
a smudge was lighted, and the tormented 




1 67 



i68 Old Indian Trails 

creatures crept up and were soon at peace in 
the choking smoke. Then came the wind at 
sunset, and old Paul Beaver, a well-known 
Stoney, and his dog came to call; the horse- 
bells settled to a quiet "clang, clang " and Paul 
sat puffing his pipe at our fireside waiting for 
an invitation to the supper his eyes greedily 
watched cooking. But our provisions were 
reaching that point where it was dangerous 
to invite any guests, specially Indians, to a 
meal, so we downed all hospitable inclinations, 
and without a qualm watched him ride away 
on his handsome buckskin just as darkness 
was falling. 

The next morning the chinook wind was 
gone and with it the flies, and a howling 
wind was sweeping from the north with angry 
clouds everywhere but over our heads, when 
another kind of a howl went up in the kitchen 
department,- — a fine bannock had disappeared 
in the night. That brindle cur of Paul's, of 
course ; those half -starved dogs of the Indians, 
are all consummate thieves. 

Just as the tents were coming down up rode 
Paul smiling and amiable, squatted down by 
the fire, and solemnly drew forth from the 
folds of his blanket-coat a dirty old cotton bag. 
Trade, of course, what had he? Turning it 



Golden Plains of the Saskatchewan 169 

upside down and shaking it gently, out came 
four turnips for which he wanted as much 
sugar as he could coax from us. But sugar 
was low, and a tea-cup of tea satisfying him, 
we captured the first fresh vegetables we had 
seen for three months, and Paul rode off with 
his tea. 

As our route now lay toward the sources 
of the Saskatchewan River, it had to be 
forded twice, first at the Cataract Flats and 
again a mile above Rabbit Creek, as the trail 
is impracticable on the north side between 
these points owing to much fallen timber. 
During the mid-summer floods, these cross- 
ings are a matter for deep consideration, and 
never at any time a subject to be treated as a 
joke. As frequently as we had forded both 
points, familiarity had taught us no contempt 
for the work ahead of us ; a certain ever-present 
danger, a washed-out ford, a stumbling horse, 
are thoughts ever in the mind of one who 
understands the situation. 

I shall never forget the first time we essayed 
the feat. It was in our early camping-days, 
we and our nerves were still an uncertain quan- 
tity to Chief, and as we wished to make a trip 
to Wilcox Pass in the very height of the sum- 
mer, he first prepared the way by charging 



170 Old Indian Trails 

our minds with tales gleaned from every 
hunter and explorer who had come to grief 
in those wild waters in the past ten years, the 
number of horses drowned, boats upset, etc. 
As we stood the harrowing stories and still 
held out for the trip, a preliminary jaunt 
was arranged for one sunny afternoon. The 
horses had been selected from a bunch bred 
in the district as they were known to be good 
swimmers. ''M's" was a little buckskin, 
mine a huge lumbering bay. 

With solemnity due the occasion we dropped 
over a high bank into the river, and then 
into a hole where the water promptly surged 
right up to the waist-line; the temperature 
being only 42 degrees, there was an unuttered 
desire for a little warm weather. Almost as 
quickly as we had gone in we came out on 
a warm sand-bar, and from that point on, 
dropped into one arm of the river after an- 
other, till dripping with water we emerged on 
the steep bank of the north side. A quick can- 
ter (fancy anything quick on my cart-horse) 
over the sunny plains and w^e struck the river 
a little farther west for the return trip, not 
having done any actual swimming so far ; all the 
dread the two tcnderfeet had was the bath of 
42°. Chief and " M. " went in first. The waters 



Golden Plains of the Saskatchewan 171 

at this crossing were not looking quite so 
peaceful as the first one, and my escort called 
out,' — "Keep your horses' heads up-stream!" 
In the pounding and splashing Chief did not 
catch the words, and turning to see what was 
wrong, his horse lost ground, and the next mo- 
ment, to my horror, I saw four heads rapidly 
bobbing down-stream. ''Well, Joe," I said, "it 
looks like the last of our friends. I suppose 
we must get over if we can and see if there is 
anything left of them to need help," and with 
the reiterated warning from behind to "head 
up-stream" the big bay and I stepped down 
and in. Giving the old fellow his head and 
planting my feet firmly down in the stirrups to 
prevent their natural tendency to come to 
the surface and float in front of me, I aban- 
doned life, fright, everything, and watched in 
numbness that angry flood. The big bay 
never faltered. As the headlong waters struck 
him I could feel the big body quiver and 
pause, then move slowly forward, halt again 
as a fresh surge swept down upon him, and 
then deliberately advance. Thus were the 
twenty or thirty yards of that ugly branch of 
the river mastered, and as we came to the 
stiller waters I looked up to see the mourned 
friends, dripping wet, but calmly sitting on 



172 



Old Indian Trails 



their horses just at the point of our emergence, 
an undisguised grin of amusement on their 
faces as "they wished they had a camera," 
(so did I). Thus ended our first lesson in 



t^M 




Kadoona Mountain at the Western Limitation of the Kootenai Plains 

mountain rivers, a lesson which has stood us 
in good stead many times since. 

But now back to the Kootenai Plains- — there 
is no describing them. To appreciate them 
one must breathe their breath deep into the 
lungs, must let the soft winds caress the face, 
and allow the eye to absorb the blue of the 



Golden Plains of the Saskatchewan 173 

surrounding hills and the gold of the grasses 
beneath the feet. To us, who had been storm- 
swept, chilled, and baked by turns in the 
outlying valleys, it was simply heaven. No 
wonder that the Indians from Morley go there 
year after year ; I only wonder that the whole 
tribe does not attempt to move in, in a body. 

To see the Plains at their best, one should 
come over the Pipestone trail in August, and 
look down on the scene from the rolling hills 
of the south. Then the golden-brown of the 
ripened grasses floods the valley with light, 
for miles the river winds and twists from west 
to east, an occasional Indian shack comes 
into view, the faint ringing of a bell denotes 
that a few tiny specks on the landscape are 
really horses, and the white dots are tepees of 
the Indians. Here the air is sweeter, dryer, 
and softer than anywhere I know, and here 
the world could easily be forgotten and life 
pass by in a dream. 

But on the day in question no one had any 
particular desire to dissolve even in dreams 
while the work of two crossings lay ahead of us. 
Like many other anticipated troubles, they 
were passed with the least possible annoyance, 
and "M." and I with only wet stockings and 
moccasins, leaving the outfit to trudge along 



174 



Old Indian Trails 



at its usual gait, took a sharp canter across 
the valley to our prospective camp-ground. 
Winding in and out among the yellowing 
poplars, we spied two tepees nestled deep 
among the trees. I often wonder when pass- 
ing an Indian camp-ground, be it ancient 




Lake Brazcau, Looking South 

or modern, if ever for an instant the natural 
beauty of a location consciouvsly appeals to 
them. I have seen not one but many of their 
camps and seldom or never have they failed 
to be artistic in their setting, and this one was 
no exception. Knowing they must be Silas 



Golden Plains of the Saskatchewan 175 

Abraham's and Sampson Beaver's families, 
acquaintances of a year's standing, I could not 
resist a hurried call. The children spied us 
first, and tumbling head over heels, ran to 
cover like rabbits; mongrel dogs barked and 
yapped, and above the din and excitement I 
called, "Frances Louise!" She had been my 
little favourite when last we were among the 
Indians, accepting my advances with a sweet 
baby womanliness quite unlike the other 
children, for which I had rewarded her by 
presenting her with a doll I had constructed 
from an old table-napkin stuffed with news- 
paper, and whose features were made visible 
to the naked eye by the judicious use of a 
lead-pencil. Necessity constructed that doll, 
love blinded the little mother's eyes to any 
imperfections, and the gift gave me a spot of 
my own in the memory of the forest baby ; to 
call her name was to introduce myself. In an 
instant her little face appeared at the tepee- 
flap, just as solemn, just as sweet, and just as 
dirty as ever. She turned and spoke to some 
one inside, and in a moment out came three 
smiling, dirty squaws, who looked as though 
wash-days were not over numerous, but 
whose welcome was very cordial as they came 
forward one by one, each wiping her hands on 



176 Old Indian Trails 

her skirt before touching my glove. Such 
grimy paws, but such shapely ones they were, 
so small and dainty, with tapering fingers, that 
their white sister, bending from her saddle, 
envied them. Little Frances was evidently 
told to shake hands, and promptly put up a 
tiny replica of her mother's, all covered with 
sticky dough. 

And then we all chattered at once, one in 
English, the others in Stoney, the only in- 
telligible word I caught being "Yahe-Weha," 
a name they had given me the year before, 
meaning the "Mountain Woman." In five 
minutes they knew where we would camp, 
that they were invited to call, that their men 
were away working, and that we had just 
crossed the river and had come from the north, 
all with smiles and signs. Then waving adieu 
we trotted off to take a peep into Mr. Barnes' 
shack (the only other white resident of the 
valley besides Tom Wilson), to see if he was 
home, and then size up the situation for a 
three-day camp-site. 

The four days of September slipped away 
before we knew it in this ideal play-ground. 
When I hear those "who know," speak of the 
sullen, stupid Indian, I wish they could have 
been on hand the afternoon the white squaws 




Tliu Indian Madonna 



177 



178 Old Indian Trails 

visited the red ones with their cameras. 
There were no men to disturb the peace, the 
women quickly caught our ideas, entered the 
spirit of the game, and with musical laughter 
and little giggles, allowed themselves to be 
hauled about and pushed and posed in a 
fashion to turn an artist green with envy. 
The children forgot their rabbit-like shyness, 
and copied their elders in posing for us; then 
one of them would suddenly remember he was 
hungry, would rush to the tepee, seize a lump 
of meat or a bone from a pot swung over a 
small fire, and rush out again shiny with the 
grease thereof. Yahe- Weha might photograph 
to her heart's content. She had promised pic- 
tures the year before, she had kept the promise, 
and she might have as many photographs now 
as she wanted. 

Personal experience has show^n me that the 
Indian has the vanity of his white brethren, 
but he is not going to pose for nothing. I 
have no belief in their superstitious dread of 
photography, at least so far as the Plains 
Indians are concerned; it is simply a matter 
of fair trade. 

The last evening of our stay was devoted to 
a dinner-party with Mr. Barnes as host, a 
dinner-party where some of the guests were in 



Golden Plains of the Saskatchewan 179 

buckskin shirts and overalls and some in short 
skirts and moccasins, where the table had been 
put together with an axe and the chairs were 
logs, where the plates were of tin, and the 
grouse and bacon served from the frying-pan. 
The solitary candle joined forces with a big 
open fire in lighting the rough-hewn rafters, 
the log walls, and the faces of the merry un- 
conventional guests. 

With the dinner finished, some one remem- 
bered what the cost of a candle (seventy-five 
miles from the railroad) must be, and consci- 
entiously blew out the light. Then we settled 
down in front of the fire, pipes were lighted, 
and the best part of the day was now to come. 
A gentle, almost imperceptible pat on the earth 
floor caused me to turn quickly and peer into 
the darkness beyond. The sight brought back 
the life of other days. The door had swung 
silently open, and from the blackness outside 
into the red glare stepped Silas and Sampson, in 
moccasined feet, so quietly that it was just a 
mite creepy. There was no salutation, they 
simply joined the group and like ourselves 
gazed silently into the leaping flames. As 
Sampson crouched forward on his knees to 
light his pipe at the fire, his swarthy face 
lighted up by the bright glow, his brass ear- 



i8o Old Indian Trails 

rings and nail-studded belt catching the glare, 
with long black plaits of glossy hair, and his 
blanket breeches, I was glad for even this 
picture which in a few years can be no more. 

As Silas spoke a certain amount of English 
and the shrewd Sampson understood all that 
was said, it was a good time to ask a few 
questions. Silas had been making a few mild 
jokes (it is so hard to associate jokes with 
Indians whom most of us have only met in 
books), and both of them had been laughing 
heartily at our lame attempts to pronounce 
some of their words, so the atmosphere seemed 
propitious. Beginning, I said: "Silas, do you 
really let your squaw saddle and pack your 
horses?" "Sure." (How well he had learned 
English !) ' ' And let her fix the tepee-poles and 
put up the tepee ? " " Yes. " "And get the wood , 
and cook, and tan the skins?" "Yes, sure!" 
(He was growing impatient at so much 
quizzing.) The time seemed ripe for some 
missionary work which was perceptibly needed 
along more lines than one, and every one 
else had stopped to listen. "Now, Silas," I 
said impressively, "you should be like the 
white men, you should do the work for your 
squaw. We do not put up our tepees or 
pack our horses or cut the wood, our men do 




fc 



m 



•*'<i 



l8l 



i82 Old Indian Trails 

that." Taking his pipe from his mouth and 
inspecting me from head to foot leisurely, he 
said, "You lazy!" 

The missionary effort went to the floor with 
a bang and every one burst out laughing (at the 
missionary, of course) and she only recovered 
herself enough to say, "And what do you do 
while your squaw works?" "This," and he 
folded his arms, closed his eyes, and puffed 
away at his pipe. But the rest of them need 
not have laughed, his look of contempt had 
swept round and included every man who had 
so demeaned himself as to be placed in such 
straits by a woman. The burst of laughter, 
however, had shown Silas that his company 
and wit were appreciated, and for an hour 
he and Sampson positively scintillated with 
brilliancy, and then, without a word of part- 
ing, stole out into the darkness to their tepees, 
going for all the world, not as two noble braves, 
but like a couple of scared youngsters afraid of 
their shadows. And then we too said good- 
night and groped out to find our own tents, far 
more afraid of stubbing our toes in the dark- 
ness than in fear of the spirits which the 
Indians think wander abroad after dark. 

One of the greatest trophies we carried with 
us when leaving the next day for the North 



Golden Plains of the Saskatchewan 183 

Fork of the Saskatchewan was a tiny grubby- 
bit of paper on which Sampson had with much 
care traced the lake we had tried so hard to 




Sampson's Map 

find, which was supposed to He north of 
Brazeau Lake. He had been there but once, 
a child of fourteen, and now a man of thirty, 
he drew it from memory, — mountains, streams, 



i84 Old Indian Trails 

and passes all included. They had to be 
labelled for our benefit, for he had probably 
never seen a geography in his life, and it 
would be hard to remember for a whole year 
that a very scribbly spot was a pass, and that 
something which looked like a squashed spider 
he called a mountain. 




Moimi Mummery 



CHAPTER XII 

THE VALLEY OF THE LAKES, THEN BACK TO 
CIVILISATION 

AND now for one last flight before our 
footsteps should be irrevocably turned 
toward home. James Outram in his book 
Heart of the Canadian Rockies describes a 
valley he saw from the summit of Mount 
Lyell. He says: 

" An interesting feature was the discovery of the ex- 
tent of one of the western tributaries of the North 
Fork, hitherto mapped as short and of very minor 
rank. It now appeared as a deep enshadowed trough, 
jewelled with a host of little lakes, and fed by a con- 
siderable glacier which apparently descends from 
Mount Lyell's eastern peak, between two splendid 
walls of rock that sever it from the great Lyell Glacier 
on the south and the west branch valley on the other 

1S5 



1 86 Old Indian Trails 

side. This valley lias been named 'Valley of the 
Lakes." ' 

And though October had now appeared 
upon our calendar, we risked yet a few more 
days, trusting that no serious storms would 
descend upon the strange pass (Baker, near 
Field, B. C.) by which we hoped to make our 
way back to the world, and thus give us trouble 
at the last. Literally it was the name of the 
valley that tempted us and appealed to our 
imaginations. 

From the camp at the junction of the North 
Fork and the main river, we travelled up the 
east bank of the former for nine miles. Here, 
as the water was low, we easily made a crossing, 
where, finding no trail, " M." and I sat down in 
a slough till the men returned in half an hour 
to say that they had come across a good Indian 
trail. As far as the red man is concerned it 
must have been many a year since his mocca- 
sined feet trod that moss-covered way. The 
trail was beaten and worn, but overgrown 
and impeded with large fallen trees, and only 
the blaze of a white man's axe seven or eight 
feet above the ground showed that a hunter 
("Jim," perhaps,) had gone that way in the 
dead of winter to try his luck with trap and 
rifle. 



The Valley of the Lakes 187 

No sooner did we leave the river than we 
plunged into a thick growth of spruce, climb- 
ing constantly for two hours. Reaching com- 
paratively level ground, we plodded on through 
closely grown and exasperating pines, so thick 
and so nearly impregnable, that even our now 
depleted packs could not be forced through in 
many places, until the axe rang out and woke 
the silence which lay like a pall over every- 
thing. So dark and still was this bit of prime- 
val forest, that no sign of life was seen on 
the way ; it seemed that with the passing of 
the Indian had passed also the need for the 
little people of the wood; and yet, no doubt, 
bright, terror-stricken eyes were watching 
the movements of the invaders from every 
direction. 

After six hours' struggling we gave it up and 
camped by the noisy river, and the tired horses 
were driven forth to pick a precarious supper 
from a timber-strewn slide near by. But 
where were the lakes all this time, the lakes 
which had tempted us these many troublous 
miles? 

In a rainy, misty sort of sunshine the next 
morning, we essayed a climb to look for them. 
How hot it was when the sun beat down 
upon a protesting climber, how bitter cold 



i88 Old Indian Trails 

the wind from the ice-fields hidden behind 
the mists! Climb, climb, as we would and 
did, nothing of interest developed, till, sur- 
mounting the last bit of scree, a particularly 
boisterous wind nearly bowled us both down 
the slope we had worked so hard to climb, 
did dislodge a hat, and as we helplessly stood 
and watched it soaring away on the wind, 
there appeared in the valley below a chain of — - 
sloughs! They were a distinctly disappoint- 
ing sight, and I wanted to shake somebody 
when I thought of the tough scramble with the 
horses the day before. Then I realised how 
things were. We were probably at an eleva- 
tion of 7500 feet. Outram had looked down 
on them from his recorded height of 11,950 
feet on Mount Lyell, and his mistake was most 
excusable. But just at the moment, hot, cold, 
weary and out of breath by turns, I was 
certainly disgusted. We had not even the 
satisfaction of a view of Mount Lyell (if Lyell 
it was which poked a white shoulder out of the 
mist occasionally), so pretending not to mind 
at all, we turned and stumbled down what we 
had just so breathlessly scrambled up, and a 
good supper soon made us laugh at our own 
chagrin. 

There was nothing now to do but return by 





iSg 



190 Old Indian Trails 

the same way we had come. We were going 
home! Back to friends, the moving world, 
and to all that makes life's wheels go round! 
Were we eager to push on and rush into the 
maelstrom? No! As day by day one familiar 
peak after another dropped behind, I think we 
all grew somewhat depressed. Only as the 
thought of a fresh boiled egg and a cup of tea 
or coffee made from material which had not 
spent its summer bobbing around in sundry 
rivers, and real bread and butter, struck our 
imaginations, did we rouse to much apprecia- 
tion of the blessings in store. 

Back down the North Fork, across the 
Middle Fork, making our way among such 
mountains as Wilson, Murchison, Survey, and 
Forbes, was a day's travel, and though we had 
been over it many times before it was still 
interesting to us. 

Our route now being up the Aliddle Fork 
and over the Howse Pass, we realised that we 
were on quite historic ground, historic at least 
for those hills. Except for the Yellowhead 
Pass it was probably one of the most used 
passes after the advent of the Hudson's Bay 
trading posts. Across it the Kootenai Indians 
had brought their furs to trade with the men 
from Jasper House, as far back as the beginning 



The Valley of the Lakes 191 

of the nineteenth century. The plains of the 
Saskatchewan had been the meeting-ground, 
from which fact has come the name Kootenai 
Plains, though I personally prefer the musical 
name the Indians have given, "Kadoona- 
Tinda," the Windy Plains. Alexander Henry, 
Jr., also passed this way one hundred years 
ago (February, 181 1) with dogs and sledges. 
He speaks of reaching the pass, gazing 
south on a vast open country, then seems 
to have turned on his heel and returned the 
way he came, and been utterly oblivious to 
the great mountains all about him ; at least he 
wasted no time discussing them. Sir James 
Hector, surgeon for Palliser's party in 1859, 
came up the Blaeberry (which has its rise in 
Howse Pass on the south) and in Palliser's 
report pays most unflattering tribute to the 
conditions of the country as he found them. 
Then there were Mr. Stuttfield and Dr. Collie, 
who, as late as 1898, crossed Howse Pass and 
attempted to get down the Blaeberry, and 
though escorted by one of the best woodsmen 
in the mountains, Bill Peyto, were unable to 
make it. 

I should add here that from a personal 
knowledge of Peyto he could have gone through 
anything if given a reasonable time, but, 



192 Old Indian Trails 

unfortunately, they were about out of "grub" 
and it was owing to this uncomfortable con- 
dition that the Baker Pass was discovered. 

I suppose the very fact of a little trouble 
enticed us on, and, in spite of Dr. Hector's 
past troubles and Dr. Collie's unflattering 
comments on the pass of his own finding, 
we determined to reach Field, (on the main 
Canadian Pacific line) if possible, by Baker 
Pass and Beavertail Creek. 

As far as the Howse Pass we found the 
way perfectly easy, very interesting, and of 
a great deal of beauty. So gradual was the 
ascent, that had we not known of that fact 
before, we might easily have crossed the 
summit without being aware of it. Horse - 
feed at the highest point looked as though 
it might have been fairly good at one time, 
but plainly, surveyors had been before us and 
every spear of grass was cleaned up. 

But how we blessed those surveyors, blessed 
them from the moment we struck a marsh, a 
pool, a tiny stream — the baby Blaebeny. In 
two miles that stream became a lusty child, 
kicking and tumbling over rocks and fallen 
trees in its hurry to get to the sea. 

An almost tropical growth covered the old 
scars of Hector's axe, and left no clue as to 



The Valley of the Lakes 193 

which was his, the Indians', Peyto's, or chop- 
ping of later date. For us there was only 
the present, for which we were profoundly 
grateful. 

With a most refreshing thoroughness, those 
surveyors had laid low many impediments of 
serious moment, and our home-going looked 
a matter of mere miles. But alas, our un- 
known friends had had horses which, like our 
own, had certainly been blessed with good ap- 
petites, and for miles had cleaned up every 
visible source of sustenance. 

For guidance and comfort we nightly, hauled 
Dr. Collie's book and map (our bible, our li- 
brary for the summer) from the duffel-bag, 
reinforced our own troubles by reading his, 
and tried to remember what Bill Peyto had 
told us when last we met. We reached the 
"Hunter's Cabin" as laid down on the map, 
kept on two miles farther; looked for a 
second, could n't find it, then struck into a 
trail on the left which ran beside a tributary 
of the Blaeberry ("to avoid a deep fissure in 
the mountain, " Peyto said) . Ascending this a 
half-mile, it suddenly lost itself in huge creek 
boulders which lay in distressing quantities all 
about us. 

Then a horrid uncertainty seized us all : had 



194 Old Indian Trails 

we done right to leave the good trail so soon 
and come by this one? Was this the creek 
with the rock fissure just beyond it? It was 
one o'clock, too late to do much fencing round; 
a fresh blaze on the other side of the stream 
suggested continuing our course. Peyto said 
the Baker Pass was steep (how his ears must 
have burned !) , and as what we saw looked as 
though it filled that bill at least, we went on. 
Owing to the tremendous pitch of the hill, 
"M." and I started first, dragging our saddle- 
ponies after us; it had taken but a few steps 
for us to decide that we were glad to relieve 
them of our weight, too ashamed to let them 
carry us as long as we had strength to walk. 
The packs, however, had to be left where they 
were, and the beasts under them to gain what 
cheer they could from the struggling brethren 
ahead. My! that was certainly no pleasure 
route! So heavy was the grade, that for three 
or four miles it was far more like going up 
stairs two steps at a time, than ascending a 
hill; constantly springing to reach a higher 
level the horses were soon dripping wet, and 
yet nothing but hill was in front of them. 
For two days there had been little for them to 
eat, it was now two o'clock, and the call came 
from behind, "Stop at the first feed you see!" 



The Valley of the Lakes 195 

On we climbed, the hours passed, a voice would 
drift up from below, "See anything ahead?" 
''No." And on we forged. From ferns we 
passed to blueberry bushes, and from them to 
moss ; then trees gave out, and with them the 
blazes we had followed doubtingly and ques- 
tioningly so long, and at five o'clock we stood 
at about 7000 feet, in icy mud, the horses, with 
drooping heads, just clutching the stuff with 
their toes to prevent slipping into the yawning 
valley below. 

Off to the right a snow-pile suggested Mount 
Mummery, at its base two valleys met, the 
one we were following at so great a height, 
and the one we had doubtingly left. No one 
had dared stop for a bite all day, no feed was 
in sight, and night coming on. It seemed 
necessary to be doing something and doing it at 
once, the horses could not stand another such 
day. Little matter now if we were on the 
right trail or wrong, whether we were hungry 
or cold, food for the workers was all we asked. 
A hurried conclave was held, "K." started to 
explore the remaining elevation, while Chief 
departed to have a look into the yawning 
valley beyond, and we were left alone, to 
watch and wait. 

The precious minutes flew, the old sun 



196 Old Indian Trails 

went relentlessly slipping toward the horizon ; 
Mount Mummery stared at us with icy in- 
difference, the horses ceased to move, or 
we to speak. A sleepy bird chirped, a rock 
rabbit popped out his inquisitive head from 
his hole near by, squeaked, and popped back 
again, a hawk swept by overhead on his 
search for prey, and still we waited. Then 
came a distant yell from Chief, trying to locate 
us, a hurried scramble up, and the welcome 
words, "I think I see slough-grass ahead in 
the valley below, and by going around a 
gorge near here we may reach it before dark. 
I 'd like to know if it 's that gorge which made 
us come over this crazy hill. Come on!" 
Come? Well I should think we did! There 
was not a horse that did not seem to under- 
stand that word "grass." The dejected 
heads came up, we slipped and slid around 
those muddy slopes, circumnavigated the 
rocky canyon, struck a mossy gully, and 
dropped the five to seven hundred feet in 
almost less time than it takes to tell it. 

Coming into the valley from the densely 
wooded hillside, the imprint of a horse's foot 
on the edge of a stream was the first welcome 
sight. The second was, grass everywhere, 
and lots of it. Packs fell oft' like magic (even 



The Valley of the Lakes 197 

our services were not scorned that night), 
air-beds were pumped up, saddlery stacked, 
tents put up, and bacon fried, all in chorus 
and all in about twenty minutes. None too 
soon either, for, as the beating on a plate with 
a spoon announced that supper was ready, the 
darkness became complete, and we ate with a 
gusto by firelight. 

Where were we? No one was very certain 
and no one cared. There was ptenty of every- 
thing for a week, lots of grass, lots of "grub," 
and sleep that night was a just one if ever 
such a thing existed. 

The next morning, as the sunshine swept 
across the high meadow and struck the white 
tent -walls, we woke with sincere, solemn grati- 
tude filling our souls, as we beheld our much- 
abused horses of yesterday standing bunched 
up in the distance, knee-deep in grass, sleeping 
that "comfy," sleep which always strikes a 
trail-horse just about sunrise. 

By nine o'clock one of us had hit a back 
trail which we had found near our tents, one 
was exploring a trail south over and beyond 
the meadows, and two, seeing a nice mountain- 
slope to climb on the valley's left, started for 
that. 

Three hours' easy scramble brought us to 



198 Old Indian Trails 

the shoulder of a most respectable peak. 
" K." 's quick eyes detected a cairn on a moun- 
tain south of us ; " Mounts Collie and Habel 
at the head of the Yoho Valley," said he, and 
then pointed out other familiar mountains in 
the neighbourhood of Field. Climbing a little 
higher, we peeked into the dearest little pocket 
imaginable . At the base ran a stream due east , 
fed by the snowfields of Habel. Between us 
and it there seemed to be a sheer wall; on 
the other side the wall was broken, and about 
half way between the summit of Mount Collie 
and the river, hung a tiny green lake in the 
bare cliffs. "This," said "K.", "is the 'Gap' 
shown on Collie's map," and having been so 
told, I could see he was right. Climbing to 
the last snow-clad ridge of this high shoulder, 
we had a magnificent view of range tip on 
range of mountains in the north which had 
safely sheltered us for so many weeks; then 
looked into the valley on our right where 
wound the Beavertail River, pointing out our 
way home. But that which interested me 
most was the frowning summit of Mount 
Habel. I had met Professor Habel soon after 
he made the first ascent of the peak in 1900. 
He told me he had seen the mountain for the 
first time when coming down the Kicking 



The Valley of the Lakes 199 

Horse hill, under Mount Stephen, had made 
up his mind to climb it, searched for it for four 
or five days before locating it, and on reaching 
its summit, called it the "Hidden Mountain." 
It seemed so odd that seven years later I 
should by merest accident be standing so near 
his goal. 

Three days' easy travel brought us out on 
the Emerald Lake road near Field. Special 
toilets had been arranged on the previous 
afternoon; sundry grease-spots had been re- 
moved from our skirts, a scarlet neckerchief 
had been washed, some wool shirts ditto, two 
or three pairs of shoes, with toes and heels 
intact, came up from the depths of the duffel- 
bags, and shaving soap had been liberally laid 
on. A smile of sincere admiration went round 
when we collected to behold our united ele- 
gance of appearance on the morning we started 
on our last ride. As for the horses, every one 
bore his inspection well, not one missing, and 
all in far better condition than when we left 
Laggan in June. Is it any wonder their 
master was proud of their appearance and 
we proud to be in such company as I am sure 
we were? 

And then we struck the highway and on it 
a carriage with people in it ! Oh ! The tragedy 



200 Old Indian Trails 

of the comparison! The woman's gown was 
blue. I think her hat contained a white wing. 
I only saw it all in one awful flash from the 
corner of my right eye, and I remember 
distinctly that she had gloves on. Then I sud- 
denly realised that our own recently brushed- 
up garments were frayed and worn and our 
buckskin coats had a savage cast, that my 
three companions looked like Indians, and 
that the lady gazing at us belonged to another 
world. It was then that I wanted my wild 
free life back again, yet step by step I was 
leaving it behind. 

We entered the little mountain town of 
Field just as the whistles shrieked out the noon 
hour. How garish it all sounded to ears that 
had for months heard nothing but Nature's 
finer notes. Then we grasped the hands of 
waiting friends, (who told us it was Mr. and 
Mrs. Rudyard Kipling we had passed on the 
road,) and fled from the eyes of the curious 
tourist to that civilised but perfect luxury- — 
the bath-tub. 



EXPEDITION OF 1908 




Our Outfit 



CHAPTER I 



THE START 



ALTHOUGH the pages of the summer's 
diary for 1907 had been turned one by 
one till the last was reached and "Finis" 
had been written, the memory as well as the 
camera carried back to the city picture after 
picture which would not and did not want 
to be forgotten. 

Stowed away in a pocket of the said travel- 
worn diary reposed Sampson's map of the 
lake we had tried so hard to find, and in a 
pocket of our minds the determination to find 

203 



204 Old Indian Trails 

our way to it if another summer dawned for 
us. No matter how varied all our interests, 
all four of us had the same goal in mind 
the moment there came a chance of pushing 
toward it. 

It is a chronic state of affairs, however, in 
the Canadian Rockies, that to plan an early- 
trip in them is to court an uncommonly late 
season, or a heavier snow-fall than has "ever 
before been known." The truth is, the 
snowfall is always heavy and the season a 
comparatively short one. To accomplish any- 
thing in distance it is wise to start out the 
moment the guides think it possible to get 
the horses over the passes. Prepare to endure 
a certain amount of discomfort in the begin- 
ning with equanimity, and then enjoy any 
good fortune in weather or otherwise that 
comes along. Also, no one need ever think 
he is going to avoid the weather; no moun- 
tains were ever made without it, least of all 
the Rockies. 

How often we have been asked, "How do 
you stand the exposure?" Don't "stand" it, 
that 's all. With a full set of those beautiful 
canary-coloured yachting slickers, found in all 
good sporting shops, a cap of the same ma- 
terial, a warm sweater, a buckskin coat, and a 



The Start 205 

pair of heavy boots, absolute independence of 
the elements is obtained. To reach camp in 
dry clothing is the key to the situation, for 
once there a good fire soon puts everything 
right. We have passed weeks of showery or 
snowy days in the hills, never knew ourselves 
to catch cold, and on taking everything into 
account could only conclude that nature 
meant us all to be wild flowers instead of 
house-plants. 

The spring of 1908 crept by like a snail. 
Some of us haunted outfitting shops, bought 
shoes warranted "to turn water till worn out," 
invested in dried vegetables of little weight and 
wonderful nutritive qualities, and spent hours 
preparing pinole. This last item we learned 
of from a practical camper, and obtained the 
recipe from an excellent book on camping. 
Ripe yellow field corn is used. It is placed in 
shallow pans and roasted in an oven as one 
would roast coffee. It is then put through a 
good strong coffee-mill and ground very fine. 
I shall never forget the day that, after hours 
of labour, I stood and proudly gazed on my 
completed task — eight pounds of pinole, and 
a borrowed kitchen covered with fine dust 
from the crushed corn. I was dead tired, 
but felt refreshed as I remembered its recom- 



2o6 Old Indian Trails 

mendation: "Two table-spoons of pinole 
mixed in a small quantity of water w411 sustain 
life for twenty-four hours, and consequently 
is one of the most valuable foods that can 
be carried on the trail." Knowing that our 
summer was likely to be a strenuous one, 
that in the life we were to lead accidents 
were liable to occur to the food supply at any 
moment, this hint seemed too valuable to 
ignore. In imagination, I could see our flour- 
bags washed away in the Athabaska River, 
the bacon gone with a drowning horse, and 
ourselves three hundred miles from a store, 
sitting around the pinole-bag, every one grate- 
ful for the thought which had prompted the 
addition of this valuable adjunct to our larder. 
And right here I might as well finish the 
history of that pinole. Nothing ever did 
happen to the food to force so dire an emer- 
gency upon us. It was packed for miles and 
miles till some one asked if we ever intended 
to use it. So it was tried as a breakfast-food 
with a little sugar and cream to help it go 
down. It was not so bad, and the bag came 
forth the next day with other members of the 
family trying it. But it had a taste which 
hung on for hours, its consistency was that of 
a mouthful of sand, and its 2:rittiness was 



The Start 207 

all over you, inside and out. By the third 
day every one was politely refusing it, and on 
the fourth the mere smell of it caused a howl 
to go up. After that we carried it for a while 
in case of accident, and as the accident did not 
come and the odour permeated everything, 
it was presented to the horses, which, like our- 
selves turned up their noses at it, and left 
it on the ground. It may be all right when 
you are starving, but in times of peace and 
plenty, beware. 

And so while we were busy with pinole and 
other condensed foods, the western contingent 
was buying up additional horses, getting 
saddlery into shape, and attending to all de- 
tails for a four months' trip into a country 
as untried as we had yet seen. 

We struck Laggan the first of June and for 
one solid week watched a steady down-pour 
of rain. The ground, already soaked, refused 
to absorb any more moisture and left the 
water lying around in large pools everywhere. 

Patience finally ceased to be a virtue, so we 
decided to move out on the 8th, wet or fine, 
and on this date, leaving a band of staring 
tourists to admire our outfit, or otherwise, 
we crept forth once more into the Great 
Beyond. 



2o8 Old Indian Trails 

O ye who have never known the joys of the 
long trail, of the confidence begot of experi- 
ence, how little you can guess the prideful, ex- 
cited, satisfied sensations as we gazed upon 
our new family ! There were Chief and " K. " , 
of course (the Life-guard so to speak), our 
two selves, and two new members,- — the 
Botanist and his own right-hand man, the 
latter to act as chef while we all travelled 
together. 

But the interesting element to us was 
the horses. A man may be judged in a 
general way in a short time, but not so a 
bunch of pack-animals. As the procession 
pulled out we drew aside on our old relia- 
bles. Nibs and Bugler, and watched the new 
family file by. First came steady old Pinto, 
then beautiful Dandy, long-legged Fox, 
Brownie stolid as a mud fence, and Roany who 
always began his spring work with a burning 
desire to cut loose from his pack, but quickly 
fell into line and ended up sensible and gentle. 
This was called "the old bunch"; then came 
the "Peyto bunch," many of whom we had 
had with us two years before. Bessie, a gay 
and festive lady, who had been noted for airing 
her heels at sudden and unaccountable mo- 
ments in the past, led proudly off, followed 



The Start 209 

by Wilcox, — ^very ancient, very steady, and 
known as a true friend to the early explorers 
of the Wilcox Pass country. Frank followed 
next, a prototype of Fox; then came Buck, 
slightly nondescript and colourless, one of those 
poor souls who, always doing exactly right, 
never gets talked about and thus becomes 
lost in the shuffle; Splash followed Buck, a 
brindled-looking lady inclined to stoutness, 
with one brown eye and one blue one, which 
gave her such a sinister and wicked appear- 
ance it took weeks for some of us to realise she 
was harmless and gentle as a lamb. Charlie, 
a dark roan, who had never seen a trail or 
muskeg, or been trained to the log-jumping 
act in his life, carried the Botanist, and for 
days amused his rider (and any on-lookers) 
learning to size up the height of a log and take 
other trail obstructions as they came. We 
often thought the rider as nervy as his horse 
when we saw Charlie take a two-foot log with 
a four-foot leap. But he soon learned. Then 
there was handsome Ricks from Morley; 
and sorrel Ginger with a Roman nose and 
heels built on the plan of strokes of lightning 
(great respect shown to those heels) ; pretty, 
shy, gentle Baldy, still in the teething stage, 
chewing straps and pack mantles as he went 
14 



210 



Old Indian Trails 



along; Silver, slow, dignified, and strong; Blue 
Peter, too uncertain yet to criticise; another 
Pinky, just enough hke Pinky of last year to 
bring up sad, funny memories of our adorable 
little bag-of-bones who had been sold back 




"j\Ir. IMuggins" 

to the Indians he came from; pretty IMidget 
who was taken along as an extra in case of an 
accident; and last and funniest of all, ambling 
irresponsibly along in the rear, two dubbed 
Lucia di Lammermoor and Biddy respectively, 
but who from the first day were known col- 
lectively as the "Heavenly Twins." 



The Start 211 

They were unitedly a bunch to be proud 
of, as, with their packs averaging two hundred 
pounds apiece, they passed before us with all 
the food, clothing, and other effects necessary 
to six people for a four months' trip into a 
country where game is plentiful but ever un- 
certain and erratic. In summing up the 
family I came very near forgetting Muggins, 
"Mr.. Muggins," under gracious conditions. 

After two former experiences, "M." and I 
had vowed we would never have a dog in the 
outfit again. But he was there, and in twenty- 
four hours we saw why he was there, in 
twenty-four more he had ingratiated himself 
completely and become part and parcel of 
our life. 

His breed? Part spaniel, I suppose. Breed 
was not his strong point. He swam like a 
duck, he kept us in grouse, he never got into 
trouble with porcupines, he was friendly with 
all, yet loved but one,- — ^his master. He was 
just adorable little Muggins, first, last, and al- 
ways. 

From Laggan to the Saskatchewan River 
via Bow Pass, the weather and conditions 
under foot never for a moment permitted 
us to forget that the season was late and 
we were early. Muskegs were at their worst 



212 



Old Indian Trails 



and the ground sloughy without much inter- 
mission. The trollius and caltha were out in 
their glory, the cold watery ground being 
their natural birthplace, while the drier 
portions were covered with spring beauties 




Trollius Albiflorus 

and yellow violets, and, at the higher eleva- 
tions, the snow lilies made the hillsides gay 
with their golden colouring. 

Bow Lake was so covered with slush ice 
that we were forced to keep out of the water 
and travel its soft banks to avoid cutting the 
horses' legs, and a grand snow-storm capped 



The Start 213 

the climax by escorting us up and over the 
summit of the pass (6700 feet), where there 
still lay two or three feet of old snow. 

As predicted by Chief, beyond that pass were 
sunshine and warmth, so much warmth, in fact, 
that we feared high water on the Saskatche- 
wan. No one had any desire to see our food 
soaked through at so early a stage of the 
game, or to test any sooner than necessary 
the swimming abilities of the new horses, so 
we all promptly proceeded to worry about 
the weather. 

I might say here that this year we had in- 
vested in numberless waterproof bags in which 
had been deposited tea, coffee, cornstarch, 
sugar, baking powder, dried fruits, etc., so 
that much of our former anxiety was cancelled, 
but we were all, with one exception, thoroughly 
acquainted with the tricks of that river, and 
would be profoundly grateful when across it. 

It was just four p.m., on a hot afternoon, 
when we stood on its banks, looked longingly 
to the other side, and held guard over the 
pack-horses who wished to plunge in and 
follow Chief and ''K." as they went off to try 
the ford ; for, though we had been across that 
very spot many times before, a ford in those 
mountains is liable to be here to-day and gone 



214 Old Indian Trails 

to-morrow, owing to the violent floods which 
occur after a hot spell, and no one was taking 
any chances. 

Throughout the entire day any moment, 
that could be spared, had been devoted to 
telling the Botanist of every catastrophe 
which had occurred or which might occur 
during the crossing. He "must not let his 
feet fly up if his horse got to swimming, but 
if they did and he was washed off, to catch 
his horse's mane or tail and 'stay with him.' " 
He was perfectly polite and listened with 
respect as he knelt on the sand, holding back 
the yelping Muggins, w^ho was struggling vio- 
lently to throw himself into the flood and 
follow his master. The men returned, said it 
seemed all right, and we filed in. I do not 
remember so much as getting wet feet (one 
becomes skilled in time in tucking their toes 
away on such occasions), and w^e emerged 
perfectly dry on the sand-bar on the other 
side. Then there was lots of yelling and I 
turned to see what was going on. Every pack- 
horse, as soon as he struck the hot sands, 
was having a good roll. This was a most 
unsettling move for the packs and rather in- 
advisable all round, and I grew so interested 
watching the proceedings behind me that 



The Start 215 

not till too late did I notice what was doing 
just beneath me. Then to my disgust I found 
his Nib-ship, regardless of his lawful burden, 
was half way on the same errand bent, and 
there was nothing to do but leap from the 
saddle to avoid being crushed underneath. 
It was then he got his first ''licking" so far as 
his mistress was concerned, when both of us 
seemed greatly surprised. 

Somehow, though we were thankful enough 
to know we were safely over, neither *'M." 
nor I felt like continuing the discussion of the 
dangers of the Saskatchewan with the Botan- 
ist, and vowed hereafter to keep silent on the 
subject. He no doubt at that time took us 
for an easily frightened pair, but by no look 
or sign betrayed himself, for which we were 
very grateful. 

On the high banks, overlooking the North 
Fork, we pitched our tents for a few days' stay, 
in order to permit the Botanist to look into 
the flora at the Kootenai Plains twenty-five 
miles down the river, and ourselves to frolic 
around in one of the most wonderful play- 
grounds the Rockies possess. With studied 
care, our tent was placed so that our waking 
eyes might first rest on the glories of Mount 
Forbes and the surrounding peaks, while a 



2i6 Old Indian Trails 

twist of the neck brought Pyramid, Sarbach 
and Murchison into view. The spot seemed 
ideal that night as we sat at our tent-door 
and called all that vastness ours. The next 
morning things were slightly different ; a gentle 
tapping on the tent-walls accompanied by a 
breeze was in evidence. The gentle breeze 
became a rampant, intermittent hurricane, 
bringing sheets of water with it straight from 
the clouds, which now encircled Mount Forbes 
and pretty much everything else. Our landed 
possessions disappeared from view and a 
deluge of rain was tossed in upon what we still 
owned — our beds and duffel-bags. Clouds 
of smoke from our fire kept us weeping and 
spluttering, and, in spite of the elements, we 
were forced to give up scenery and swing the 
tent broadside to the gale. 




Back on Our Old Playground — the North Fork 



CHAPTER II 



BACK ON OUR OLD PLAYGROUND — THE 
NORTH FORK 

WITH a slight cessation of rain on the i6th, 
Chief and the Botanist left us for a 
three days' trip down the river, while " K." and 
"Chef" went off to Glacier Lake, five or six 
miles distant. This left us one of our rare days 
alone, and I for one knew what I meant to do. 
A most peculiar odour clung to the blankets 
of my bed. A neatly conducted conversation 
had brought out the fact that those blankets 
and some raw bear-skins had spent consider- 
able time in each other's society during the 
spring, and, though all the water in that camp 
had to be packed up a thirty -foot bank from 

217 



2i8 Old Indian Trails 

the river, the laundry of thovse blankets was 
imperative while the critics' backs were 
turned. Long experience had taught us how 
to wash our hands in a teaspoon and take 
a bath in a tea-cup, so the blankets were 
manipulated with comparative ease in a 
hand-basin. 

Bear Creek canyon was visited the next 
day, and proved to be an exceptionally fine 
one for that country where hardly a stream 
finds its course through the hills without beat- 
ing its way among great rock-worn cliffs. 

And then the Botanist returned safe and 
sound but with the intelligence that he now 
knew what swimming the Saskatchewan 
meant. The snows on the mountains east 
of our camp were evidently melting much 
faster than those at the river's sources; our 
unsuspecting friends made this discovery in 
mid-stream, twenty miles below us, got a 
thorough ducking going over, and another 
when returning. We were very glad to have 
them both safely back, but the alarmists had 
been vindicated, and we were not the cowards 
we had seemed. 

As the three tourists started ahead on the 
morning of the 20th, we turned in our saddles 
to look with pride on the sight so gratifying 



Back on Our Old Playground 219 

to a trailer, sixteen perfectly packed horses 
slowly advancing, sixteen white pack-mantles 
moving deliberately among the green trees. 
Suddenly a violently propelled pack appeared 
on the crest of the hill and came charging 
down among us. It was Roany on one of those 
wild tears he had so frequently indulged in the 
year before; his spirits soon infected the all- 
too-willing Bessie, and, with tail straight in the 
air, she promptly joined him in his sport. 
Fearing the whole bunch might take the dis- 
ease, we three drew modestly aside to avoid 
the rush. Then we waited, but nothing 
came of it. The stampede seemed nipped in 
the bud, and we began to feel that some ca- 
lamity must have occurred. It appeared that 
after Roany's rush (which was only exuber- 
ance of spirits anyhow), the men counted 
noses and found the Twins missing. They 
had been roundly frightened with Roany's 
scandalous behaviour as he banged into them 
and tore by, and, like ourselves, turned into 
the woods to avoid trouble, and had not had 
sense enough to turn back again. Poor 
little creatures! They were the only ones 
of the whole twenty-tv/o that never learned 
their work; they ended just as they began — 
always in trouble, just getting in, or being 



220 Old Indian Trails 

pulled out. Unwilling to be separated, they 
jogged and thumped and hit each other's 
packs trying to travel together on a trail just 
wide enough for one. If two trees standing 
close together were within a few yards of 
the trail, it was nothing out of the way to see 
them both make a dash for it and of course 
get thoroughly wedged together, when "K." 
would be forced to go around, and, by yells 
and perhaps emphatic but unrecorded argu- 
ment, compel them to back out. In ten 
minutes they would be at it again. I remem- 
ber one night we were sympathising with him, 
for really they were more aggravating than 
all the muskeg and fallen timber put to- 
gether, and some one said: "You must find 
them terribly trying, they are never on the 
trail." Loyal to his charges in spite of such 
irritating behaviour, he replied: ''Oh, yes, 
they are, they cross it sometimes!" 

The travel to Camp Parker, escorted as we 
were by uncommonly good weather, was more 
beautiful than ever. With a conscious pride 
of possession, w^e pointed it out to the Botanist, 
who, having already seen much of the country, 
was willing to admit it was "the finest thing 
yet. " We tested the Big Hill with the aneroid, 
decided it was about a thousand feet high, were 




fq 



222 Old Indian Trails 

glad when we saw the last pound of grub hauled 
to the top, neatly stacked in piles at camp, 
and the horses straying off into the rich mead- 
ows of Camp Parker, where they were to have 
two whole days with nothing to do, for the 
following day we were to climb Mount Atha- 
baska for fossils. 

The next morning, armed with lunches, 
aneroid, cameras and geological hammer, four 
of us were off scientifically-bent, accompanied 
by Muggins, the two at home preferring the 
joys of laundry, drying out plant-press papers, 
and making mulligan. What is mulligan? 
Well, in this instance, it proved to be the final 
repository for an aged fool-hen, a remnant 
of dried beef, some stewed tomatoes and 
corn, and proved a big success at six o'clock 
that night (but then we, who had been climb- 
ing, could have eaten any old boiled stews by 
that time, so don't take my word that it is a 
dish for an epicure) . 

As we climbed, the snow patches grew more 
and more numerous, and not until after we 
reached an altitude of 8000 feet did we come 
upon the fossil outcrop. Here, while we ate 
our lunch with the wind shrieking around us, 
Muggins covered himself with glory by killing 
a small gopher which had persisted in taunt- 




Mount Athabaska from the Base of Wilcox Peak 



223 



224 Old Indian Trails 

ing him unceasingly from v/hat the gopher 
must have considered safe ground, and his 
hapless little body went into the fossil-bag 
as a specimen. 

After much pounding and hammering on 
everybody's part, "K.", who had the load to 
carry, decided that fifty pounds of fossihsed 
corals and shehs ought to be enough to satisfy 
the most enthusiastic geologist, and as every 
pocket in the party was loaded down also, there 
was an unanimous agreement to quit, and 
the descent began. 

Several large patches of snow were en- 
countered but easily overcome, then an es- 
pecially long and steep one intruded itself. 
It would have been a beauty to glissade, being 
harder and firmer than the others, but un- 
fortunately at its terminus was a fifty-foot 
precipice. At first I demurred at risking my 
neck on the thing, but "K." was really a fine 
mountaineer, and assuring me that, if I fol- 
lowed cautiously in his tracks, he would get 
me down safely, I immediately fell in line. 
"Chef," probably seeing a few rags of doubt 
still clinging to my movements, gallantly 
made foot -holes for himself beside those "K." 
was kicking out, and oftered me a steadying 
hand. I looked round to see what the Botan- 



Back on Our Old Playground 225 

ist might be doing. Denying any claims 
to scientific mountaineering, there he was 
poised at the top like some big bird about to 
take flight, waiting patiently till we got out 
of the way, when he said he "intended to take 
a slide down and be caught at the bottom" — 
a sensible scheme. 

"K." was valiantly doing his best, but 
the constant shifting of his heavy fossil-bag, 
with frequent spasmodic brandishing of the 
rifle, kept faith in my original preserver 
trembling in the balance, while the constant 
tendency of "Chef's" feet to fly out in front 
of him, compelled me to liken his help to a 
reed. Down we slowly crawled a few inches 
at a time. Suddenly "Chef" gave one wild 
kick and a sickening whoop, out flew his 
heels, he thoughtfully abandoned my hand, 
and went sliding towards the rock-strewn 
ground and precipice below, grabbing at the 
snow in vain attempts to stop himself. The 
hearts of his friends stopped beating for a 
moment I am sure, till we saw him land on 
the stones which, though not soft, looked 
perfectly safe. 

Then "K." and, I with depressed minds, 
crept on, but we had not gone three yards 
till he too lost his balance, threw out his 

IS 



226 Old Indian Trails 

hands, wildly grabbing at the mushy snow, 
and went down like a shot, leaving only the 
most slippery-looking slide in his wake. Both 
escorts gone without so much as an apology, 
and more than half of that slope still to cover, 
things looked desperate for me. Then I 
started to dig in my heels according to in- 
structions and in spite of adverse circum- 
stances, when a warning voice from behind 
yelled: "Look out; I 'm coming!" Expect- 
ing a violent blow in the back I awaited the 
shock, but he (the Botanist) gallantly swerved 
to one side and I saw my last hope fly by 
accompanied by a bunch of plant specimens 
and the dead gopher. He was received at 
the bottom with cheers, shouts, and open 
arms, and I went slowly crawling down. 
There stood the gallant escorts below me in 
a row, expectant, grinning, and perfectly 
helpless. The ridiculousness of it all suddenly 
assailed me, so with a laugh I gave up and 
joined my companions in the wink of an eye 
via the slippery way. 

The mvilligan tasted delicious an hour 
later and the air-bed soon felt good to a bunch 
of untrained muscles. Aboiit ten-thirty I 
woke with a start. Lightning was playing 
over the hills opposite, the thunder banging 



Back on Our Old Playground 227 

on the rocks, and to a sleepy brain the rain 
was like bullets falling on the tent-walls. Too 
tired to be bothered, I pulled the waterproof 
covers close over my head and fell asleep. 
An hour later I was suddenly wide awake 
again. Tramp, rustle, scratch, just back of 
the tent' — what was it? A bear enticed by 
the smell of food, or a horse seeking shelter 
in the timber from the storm? It was dark 
as ink outside, both spirit and flesh weakened 
at the thought of going out to drive off what- 
ever was there. No, the grub-pile must take 
care of itself, my head went under the blank- 
ets, and I was soon asleep again. It was a 
comfort in the morning to see the stacked 
food intact, and in a moment of weakness I 
spoke of the racket outside our tent during 
the night. To mention "bear" before that 
family was quite enough to start a run of com- 
ments which did not cease till packing began. 
Then as the mantles were being removed from 
the great pile of food and saddlery, something 
wiggled, something backed its way clumsily 
out and waddled, unmolested, off into the 
bush; then somebody yelled, "Come on and 
look at your bear!" That wretched por- 
cupine had been at the bacon, and had 
done quite a little damage to our valuable 



228 Old Indian Trails 

material. When we asked Muggins why he 
had not let us know about the unwelcome 
visitor, he only wagged his tail and as good as 
said, "You always scolded me if I went near 
a porcupine, so don't blame me. " 




Maligne Pass 



CHAPTER III 



THE SEARCH FOR THE UNMAPPED LAKE 



THE route over Nigel Pass and down the 
Brazeau River to "Tepee Camp," near 
the mouth of Brazeau Lake, was hke returning 
to our own again. The old bunch of horses 
of 1907 seemed to have communicated to the 
new ones the fact that there was great feed 
at the latter place, and the moment the river 
was crossed there was great hustling along. 
As we pointed out this small corner of real 
estate to the Botanist, he agreed that in spite 
of the cold rain,' — it was the most ideal camp- 
229 



230 Old Indian Trails 

ground he had ever seen, and also that the 
adjacent hills had better be inspected the 
following day for plant specimens. 

They made an interesting climb, though 
scarce covering 3000 feet, and we found the 
steep hill-slopes a perfect mass of flowers, 
with game-trails running in every direction. 
So fresh were some of the signs that we 
concluded the exodus of the game had taken 
place only upon the arrival of our large party 
in the valley below. Just before reaching the 
summit we passed over a carpet of the bluest 
of blue forget-me-nots and flush pink daisies. 
In some places they lay freshly broken and 
crushed to the ground, and I could not help 
wondering a little if it had been given these 
children of the hills to feel some of this great 
beauty about them. Alas, I suppose the 
green grass was all they asked, and to a mother 
sheep her child would look no fairer for sleep- 
ing in a bed of blue and white blossoms on the 
hill-tops. But they had vanished as the frost 
from the grass, or the sun behind the clouds; 
our coming had breathed terror in their 
hearts. 

On the heights we got a fine view" of Brazeau 
Lake, and decided that a gap in the hills west 
of the lake was probably the pass through 



The Search for the Unmapped Lake 231 

which we were to make our way to the lake 
of which we were in search- — the Pobokton 
Pass. To merely look into it was to be seized 
with the excitement incidental to reaching 
new regions to explore, so, after gathering 
several rare alpine specimens, we faced about, 
longing for the morrow to start on our year- 
old quest. 

By 8 : 20 the next morning (June 30th) , the 
whole outfit was strung along the trail head- 
ing for the outlet of Brazeau Lake, and for a 
land of which we had not the slightest know- 
ledge. We might find sustenance for ten or 
a dozen horses, but twenty-two was another 
proposition. On all the previous days Chief 
had known exactly where he was going to 
find feed for so large a family; did he have 
any fears now? If so, his face did not show 
it, but still there was an absence of joking, 
there was no whistling in front or warbling 
of the latest popular song in the rear — that 
was all. 

Crossing the Brazeau at the very outlet of 
the lake was much easier than we had ex- 
pected to find it, and as soon as we were over 
we took up Dr. Coleman's old trail of 1892. 
A sharp detour was first made to avoid some 
rock-bluffs jutting out to the water; and then 



232 Old Indian Trails 

for a half mile on the lake shore we encoun- 
tered bad going. A few of the old stagers, 
grown wise at the game, scuttled along close 
to our heels to have the advantage of the 
leader's guidance, half a dozen others got 
more or less mired, and how the foolish, 
unthinking Twins ever came out alive, no 
one but their luckless driver in the rear 
knows, but they did not fail, either then or 
any other time, to turn up eventually safe 
and sound. 

I think "M's" diary sums up the approach 
to Pobokton Pass to perfection, as we found it 
that initial day of our experience on it, and 
as others will find it unless they cross it 
later in the season: "The trail was a little 
fierce, quick changes from burnt timber 
to rock-climbing, muskeg, quicksand, scree 
slopes, and mud slides." Late in the after- 
noon, after much tough work, we made camp 
at timber-line, where the horses went moun- 
tain-climbing for their suppers and we for 
flower specimens, getting some very rare 
ones among the rocks. 

With the next day glaringly clear and hot, 
we crossed the pass which our aneroid made 
7400 feet, ploughing through deep snow which 
the horses hated nearly as much as muskeg. 



The Search for the Unmapped Lake 233 

It was a hard climb up and over, and now 
that I have seen it I should never take the 
Pobokton Pass from start to finish for a 
pleasure trip; it is a miserable route, and one 
only to be used to accomplish an end. 

The trail was a very well marked one till, 
on the second day's ride, it seemed to come 
to an abrupt end at the river's edge where 
there had been a large Indian camp at some 
time. At this point it, became so indistinct 
that the men looked around for something 
more promising, and a few old cuttings de- 
cided us to take a sharp turn to the right and 
ascend a steep hill, where we continued to 
follow more or less of a trail for a couple of 
hours longer. 

The Indians' map told us to leave the valley 
at the third creek coming in from the right. We 
had already passed a dozen of them and were 
now passing another, but no horse-feed was in 
sight. A short distance beyond, we reached an 
open stretch, found tepee-poles and stopped 
for the night. The feed was mostly moss, 
muskeg, and fresh air, lots of all three; but 
the lake was getting on the nerves of all the 
family, and the horses would have to put up 
with a little inconvenience themselves. 

With tents in order, all went off in as many 



234 Old Indian Trails 

different directions as possible. The feminine 
contingent came back first, reporting " fine 
scenery but no pass as far as they could see." 
"K." appeared next; "he had been to the 
end of the valley from where the last creek 
emerged, but that was a matter of impossi- 
bility for horses." Then Chief arrived with 
the cheerful intelligence that "we could still 
advance ; a good trail led down the hill and was 
probably the real Pobokton trail." Perhaps 
the river went through some impassable gorge 
at this point, to cause us to do such an amount 
of tall climbing all morning. It was a comfort 
to know we could go on anyhow, certain it 
was that no one wanted to stay there, and 
no one contradicted the coolness of the atmos- 
phere. Far, far in the distance, at seven 
o'clock, we could see the sun just setting in 
a bank of angry clouds, the wind, w^hich had 
not been any too pleasant all day, began to 
howl and sob, and catised us to prevail on 
" Chef " to leave his baking a few minutes and 
peg down our tent, as it threatened to go 
off with our entire belongings. A pocket- 
handkerchief soared away like a bird, and the 
collapsible hand-basin had already taken a 
short flight across the slough in front of our 
tent. 



The Search for the Unmapped Lake 235 

The morning of the "Glorious Fourth" 
was ushered in with a crackHng fire at 
our tent-door and a famihar voice saying, 
"Hot water, thermometer somewhere about 
thirty!" It took a terrible lot of courage to 
emerge from the warm blankets, from which 
position we could note six inches of snow 
over everything, and every few moments the 
howling wind would send a fresh supply down 
upon us. In spite of "Chef's " extra trouble to 
keep the breakfast hot at our fire, and every 
one piling into our tent to eat it, the bacon 
was like candle-grease in the bitter cold, and 
the coffee barely warm. The packing was 
worse than the eating. The horses fidgeted 
and turned to avoid facing the wind, and, what 
with frozen tents, pack-mantles, and ropes, not 
to mention stiffened fingers, it was nine o'clock 
before we could get below the brow of that 
exposed hill. 

For the next two hours the trail led us down 
a fire-swept valley where the chopping was 
incessant and heavy. Once more reaching 
the bed of the stream we again found old 
tepee-poles and a division of the way, one 
pointing to the Sun Wapta, the other leading 
into a notch in the hills with a northern trend. 
The stream from it really did seem as if it 



236 Old Indian Trails 

might be the one for which we were looking, 
and the opening in the hills the last possible 
one before reaching the end of the valley of 
the Sun Wapta, which we had occasionally 
seen to the north-west of us. The trail here 
was very steep and rough and, with the 
thought that we might be coming back over 
it next day, very hard to keep on following. 
About half way up the hill, down came the 
snow, and every one said "Yes!" to the 
suggestion of stopping at the next suitable 
place. 

The game was now on in earnest. The 
household was getting into a rather divided 
state of mind, the opinion not having been 
unanimously in favour of this particular val- 
ley. However, those who did favour it were to 
have a chance of exploring it. Consequently, 
Chief and "K." went off the next morning to 
see what was ahead and the rest of us, as 
usual, worked each in his own line. 

At four o'clock the men returned; had 
found a good trail, crossed a pass, could see 
miles ahead, btit no lake of any description 
could be seen. The decision was to push 
ahead ; we always had the privilege of turning 
back, and the best of the stimmcr was still 
before us. 



The Search for the Unmapped Lake 237 

The new pass was a duplication of all other 
passes, soft and spongy; our aneroid showed 
the altitude as 7200 feet. Long patches of 
snow made the travelling very heavy, but the 
pass was a short one, and, with the saddle- 
horses ahead breaking the way, we were not 
long in getting over. 

Reaching the eastern slope, I think I never 
saw a fairer valley. From our very feet it 
swept away into an unbroken green carpet 
as far as the eye could see. The botanical 
department found a rare specimen of pedic- 
ularis, while Muggins captured a couple of 
ptarmigan, and then the cavalcade made a 
quick descent of about a thousand feet, tramp- 
ing under foot thousands of blossoms of the 
trollius and Pulsatilla which covered the way. 

Two and a half miles below the summit, 
finding a bunch of tepee-poles — a hint we were 
now in the habit of taking from the Indians,- — ■ 
we made our camp. In the afternoon, I took 
a stroll up a near-by hill, hoping to be able 
to report having seen the lake on my return; 
but no such glory was in store. 

The morning of July 7th was a perfect one, 
the green valley down which we made our 
way was ideal, and yet in spite of all these 
blessings we were distinctly dismal. When 



238 Old Indian Trails 

the outfit was too spread out for us to discuss 
the quite undiscussable geography about us, 
we certainly looked our thoughts and rode 
along in dead silence. 

The trail was not well marked this day, but 
that was owing to the fact that a horse could 
travel almost anywhere. However, even in 
face of such depression, we were able to enjoy 
one particular cut-bank which we followed up 
to avoid a soft spot on the river's edge; it was 
a mass of forget-me-nots, great splashes of 
intense blue, as though a bit of the sky had 
fallen. Then on and on, up and down hill we 
crawled for about eight miles, till we came to 
a halt on the river's right in a fine bunch 
of spruce. The day had grown steadily 
warmer, and with it had come the first real 
instalment of mosquitoes, and, as we ate our 
lunch of bread and jam and tea, it took con- 
siderable vigilance to keep them from drowning 
in the tea or sticking fast to the jam. 

With lunch over, up came the everlastmg 
question: ''Where is that lake? Do you 
think we are on the right track? " " K.", who 
had grown more and more solemn for days, 
suddenly jumped up and shaking himself 
violently said: "Well, it 's two o'clock, but 
I 'm going off to climb something that 's high 



The Search for the Unmapped Lake 239 

enough to see if that lake 's within twenty 
miles of here, and I 'm not coming back till 
I know!" Anxious as I was to go along, I 
knew he was in no mood to have a snail in tow, 
and then it was far more important to locate 
our quarry than that I should personally be in 
at the death. Besides, it would have taken 
a goat to follow him when he was as desperate 
as he was then. With aneroid, camera, com- 
pass and our best wishes, he left us, — ^he for 
the heights, and we to put in time below 
looking for flowers and fossils, tormented 
by hordes of mosquitoes. We found large 
quantities of the latter, and, after a short 
jaunt, returned to camp, where three of us 
donned the despised "bug-nets" from which 
we emerged only for dinner. 

The hours went by, a smudge of damp moss 
assisted in slightly allaying the pests, night 
settled down, but " K." had not returned. We 
were a dreary -looking crowd. It rained a 
little. In spite of the hot night, Chief made 
a rousing fire as a beacon for the climber, 
and we all sat listening for the first crackle 
in the bushes. Not till 10:30 did it come, 
then he staggered out of the black forest into 
the flaring light, looking thoroughly tired out. 
He said he had "kept hopping" the entire 



240 Old Indian Trails 

seven hours and, though tired and hungry, 
greeted us with the joyful news, "I 've 
found the lake ! ' ' Ascending the ridge behind 
our camp, he dropped 2000 feet to another 
valley, then climbed a fine peak where the 
aneroid said 8750 feet. Reaching the top, 
he looked over and there lay the lake below. 
The quest was over, all doubts were at rest, 
so there was no turning back, we could go 
on. A sigh of satisfaction passed around 
the camp-fire. Every one had been on a 
strain for days; "K's" absence on the moun- 
tain had added to it; now that we had him 
and the lake safe, there was no noisy demon- 
stration, just complete relaxation. He w^as 
regaled with bacon, tea, and cake; the camp- 
fire went down, the ''bug-nets" went on, and 
the camp went to sleep. 

The sound which woke our slumbers next 
morning was Chief shouting, "All aboard 
for the lake!" The expressions on all faces 
were comical. Every one got off a joke, no 
matter how stale, every one being in a partic- 
ularly happy humor. "K." had reported the 
lake "just around the corner," a matter of six 
or seven miles ; no one minded the mosquitoes 
and we "hiked" forth jubilant, still sticking 
to the river's right, though we had a line on 



The Search for the Unmapped Lake 241 

Sampson's map telling us to cross to the left. 
But going was easy, never an axe was used, 
so why give up a good thing for an uncertainty. 
In about two hours, after passing through 
a little very soft ground, we came out on the 
shores of Chaba Imne (Beaver Lake), but 





First Sight of Maligne Lake, from Mount Unwin 

found our position too low to get much idea 
of its size, though even there it looked quite 
large enough for all the time and exertion 
we had spent on it. As we stood upon its 
shores, we looked across to the other side, 
wondered what it all held in store for us, then 



242 Old Indian Trails 

wandered around while the men looked for a 
good camp-site. 

Indians, of course, had been there, but, un- 
less a prospector or timber-cruiser had come 
in by way of the Athabaska River, we had 
reason to feel we might be the first white 
people to have visited it. 

From the moment we left the trail on 
Pobokton Creek, there had not been one 
sign of a civilised hand; the Indian is a 
part of the whole, the white man, with his 
tin-cans and forest-fires, desecrates as he 
goes. The unknown has a glamour inde- 
scribable; it creeps into the blood; it calls 
silently, but none the less its call is irresistible 
and strong. 

Yes, the long quest was over, the object 
found, and it seemed very beautiful to our 
partial eyes. As some one had to remain 
and keep the horses from rolling on the hot 
sands, we individually took short flights to 
see what was to be seen. 

As "M." and I wandered about, we found 
a number of logs cut by the beaver many 
years ago; but, knowing the Indian's thrift- 
lessness, I doubt if there was a live beaver 
left in the valley, for he cleans out as he goes, 
and is consequently a most destructive hunter. 



The Search for the Unmapped Lake 243 

Such carpenter- work, however, explained how 
the lake had received its name. 

In half an hour "K." returned to say they 
had found feed on the other side of the river, 
also a good ford, so, retracing a half mile 
through the previously mentioned soft spot, 
we all got safely across. Just as Ginger, 
giving himself an extra hump, sprang up the 
far bank, he parted company with a fifty- 
pound sack of flour which fortunately dropped 
on dry ground, when everybody sighed, 
"What luck!" 




The Maiden Voyage on Lake Maligne 



CHAPTER IV 



A MAIDEN VOYAGE ON THE NEW LAKE 



nPHE camp-site just mentioned was a 
^ lucky find. How the men ever fell over 
it I cannot imagine ; but they had a Robinson 
Crusoe sort of habit of falling over the right 
thing at the right time, and at the moment 
we scarce wondered. It must have been half 
a mile back from the river; we rode through 
fierce scrub to reach it, but once there the 
horses were as safe as though corralled. The 
feed was knee-deep and inexhaustible, and 
we shook ourselves into quarters with the idea 
of several days' stay. 

AVith the lake now found, fresh food for 
conversation developed. A high double- 

244 



Maiden Voyage on the "New" Lake 245 

peaked mountain, with a very large glacier 
on its north face, could be seen above the 
tree-tops about thirty miles distant. It 
seemed a little too much to the north-east to 
be Mount Brazeau, while the one that "K." 
reached in his climb seemed too far to the 
south-west. Both were in splendid view and 
kept us guessing. 

The Botanist quickly grew busy; he had 
struck a botanical haven, very rare specimens 
of other sections of the mountains were there 
in masses, and other plants he had not seen 
at all were there also. Dinner passed off with 
the exciting intelligence that "to-morrow 
will be devoted to building a raft, as the 
shores, as far as can be seen, are impassable 
for horses, and it must be fully three miles 
to the head of the lake. We will then take 
tents, blankets and food for three days, and 
you enthusiastic climbers can fight it out 
from the top as to which is Mount Brazeau. " 

Our part of the raft-making next morning 
was the uncommon permission to wash up 
the breakfast dishes, and the three men were 
soon swallowed up in the trees as they went 
down to the lake, each with his axe over his 
shoulder. With things snugged up and a 
huge pot of pork and beans set to simmer over 



246 Old Indian Trails 

the fire, I too strolled down. It was a stroll, 
too, that took about a half hour to do the 
job, as the fallen timber made it hard travel- 
ling and the sloughs near the lake boot -high. 
But we did n't make rafts every day or even 
reach a spandy-new lake, so the exertions 
seemed well worth the cause. As I came 
quietly out to the water's edge, there were 
two of the men out in the lake busily lashing 
two logs together, and " K." was just rounding 
a point gracefully riding a dead tree, which, 
at that moment, as gracefully rolled over and 
landed him in the water. He was, however, 
already so wet that he could n't be much 
wetter, so he shook himself amidst a momen- 
tary smile all round, and shoved his old tree 
into place. 

I found a dry spot and sat watching them 
come and go for an hour. "Chef," who was 
an accompHshed axeman, wielded his axe with 
an artistic ability interesting to see; and as I 
looked at them all, working almost in silence, 
my mind went back to the first carpenters 
who had cut logs in those waters, — the busy 
little beavers whose work was still visible, 
but whose pelts had been the cause of their 
extermination. 

At six o'clock the three men walked into 




Oh 



W 



247 



248 Old Indian Trails 

camp, soaked, of course, but jubilant over 
results, and announced that H. M. S. Chaba 
would sail for the upper end of the lake to- 
morrow morning at nine. 

A short pow-wow after supper resulted in 
learning that we were to go in style regardless 
of our plea that we were willing to rough it 
for a few days; air-beds, tents, and food for 
three days were to be taken on that raft. 

Personally my sensations towards large 
bodies of water are similar to those of a cat, 
and thotigh I begged to rough it, it was not 
so much to do something uncomfortable as 
to keep from drowning on an overtaxed raft. 
With qualms and misgivings next morning, I 
watched bags, boxes, and bundles carried out 
and deposited on the upper deck of the Chaba, 
the last two packages being "M." and my- 
self, who were dumped unceremoniously on 
with the rest of the cargo. The Botanist 
waded out for himself, as did Muggins, the 
rowers climbed aboard, and we set sail. Now 
that she was loaded, the lower deck looked 
alarmingly under water, and '' M. " and I were 
seated high on a bag of flour, a slab of bacon, 
and bundles of blankets. To the novice in 
rafting, nothing could have looked more in- 
secure or unreliable; wide gaps in the logs 



Maiden Voyage on the ''New" Lake 249 

showed unmeasured depths of green water 
below, and it seemed as though, with a sudden 
lurch or sharp turn, we must be shot from 
our perch into the cold, unfathomed waters. 

Determined to put up a brave fight, I 
clutched my log and awaited a spill. It never 
came; she rode as steady as a little ship and 
as slow as a snail. She was propelled by two 
sweeps twelve feet long ; the men took twenty- 
minute turns at her, the rest of us looking on 
and silently wondering at the fearful task and 
lack of complaint. At noon she was paddled 
as near shore as possible and all hands landed 
for lunch; Muggins, who sat at the tip end 
of the landing-log voted the performance a 
terrible bore, and nearly jumped out of his 
skin when once he reached terra firma. 

Back once more on the raft after an hour's 
rest, the men slowly pulled the clumsy little 
craft, foot by foot, past exquisite bays and 
inlets, the mountains closed more and more 
about us, and at six-thirty, as we seemed within 
a mile of our goal — the head of the lake,- — we 
hove to, and camped by a stream which came 
from the double-peaked mountain. Landing, 
we found our new home was a garden of 
crimson vetches. As the warm winds swept 
across them, the odour brought a little home- 



250 Old Indian Trails 

sick thought of the sweet clover-fields of the 
east in July. 

Opposite our camp rose a fine snow-capped 
mountain down whose side swept a splendid 
glacier. As we paddled slowly in sight of 
it, "K. " suddenly looked up and said, "That 
is the mountain from which I first saw the 
lake." So we promptly named it "Mount 
Unwin. " Though the breath of the vetches 
remained with us all night, the thought of 
home fled with the crash of avalanches from 
Mount Unwin' s sides, and the distant yapping 
of coyotes in the valley behind us. With the 
coming of the morning, our plans were quickly 
laid to paddle the intervening mile to the end 
of the lake, take a light lunch, then climb for 
the keynote of the situation, — Lake Brazeau.^ 

On one point we had found Sampson's 
map very much at fault: he had both drawn 
and mentioned "narrows" abotit two thirds 
of the way up the lake.^ These had never 
materialised and we commented on the fact 
of finding Sampson seriously at fault. The 
raft was growing to be so homey and reliable 
a vehicle that even the timid now stepped 
gaily aboard, all but Muggins; he hated that 

' At that time the only established geographic point within 
many miles. 

=■ See Sampson's map. 



Maiden Voyage on the ''New" Lake 251 

raft, and came aboard sighing and dejected as 
though he had been whipped, but of course 
had no intention of being left behind, and 
away we sailed with a pack-mantle hoisted 
to catch any passing breeze. 

In about an hour, as we were rounding 
what we supposed to be our debarking point, 
there burst upon us that which, all in our little 
company agreed, was the finest view any of 
us had ever beheld in the Rockies. This 
was a tremendous assertion, for, of that band 
of six of us, we all knew many valleys in that 
country, and each counted his miles of travel 
through them by thousands. Yet there it 
lay, for the time being all ours,^ — those miles 
and miles of lake, the unnamed peaks rising 
above us, one following the other, each more 
beautiful than the last. We had reached, 
not the end of the lake, but the narrows of 
which Sampson had told us. On our left 
stood a curiously shaped mountain toward 
which we had worked our way for two days. 
We called it "The Thumb " ; next rose a mag- 
nificent double-headed pile of rock, whose 
perpendicular cliffs reached almost to the 
shore. Its height? I 've no idea. It was 
its massiveness, its simple dignity, which ap- 
pealed to us so strongly, and we named it 



252 Old Indian Trails 

" Mount Warren," in honour of Chief, through 
whose grit and determination we were able 
to behold this splendour. 

As we slowly advanced beneath the shadow 
of ''The Thumb," a large fissure, at least looo 
feet above us, became visible, and from it there 
burst a fine waterfall. So great was its drop 
that it became spray, waving back and forth 
in the wind, long before it touched the rocks 
below, then gathering itself in a little stream, 
tumbled headlong into the lake, losing itself 
in a continuous series of ringlets. 

After four hours of tough rowing, we reached 
the head of the lake, and landed for lunch on 
an old alluvial fan. None of the higher peaks 
were here visible, the supposed Mount Brazeau 
south of us, the uncertain Mount Maligne east 
of us, or even Mount Unwin; they w^ere all 
hidden by lower shoulders of themselves. 

Like feudal lords (and ladies) we sat at 
our mid-day meal of tinned-meat and bannock 
that day. Our table, the clean sweet earth 
itself, was garnished with flowers, with vetches 
crimson, yellow, and pink. They spread away 
in every direction from us as far as the eye 
could see, and, the warm winds blowing down 
upon us from the southern valleys, swept 
across their faces and bore their clover-laden 



Maiden Voyage on the "New" Lake 253 

breath to the first white guests of that wonder- 
ful region. 

With lunch over, we wandered about to 
drink it all in. How pure and undefiled it 




A Camp Dinner 

was ! We searched for some sign that others 
had been there,- — not a tepee-pole, not a 
charred stick, not even tracks of game; just 
masses of flowers, the lap-lap of the waters 
on the shore, the occasional reverberating 
roar of an avalanche, and our own voices, 
stilled by a nameless Presence. 

We wanted a week in that heaven of the 
hills, yet back at ''Camp Unwin" was only 

253 



254 Old Indian Trails 

one more day's grub, so, scolding at Fate, we 
turned toward H. M. S. Chaha as she lay 
indifferently swashing her cumbersome form 
against an old beached log, whose momentary 
duty it was to prevent her from drifting off 
across the lake. 

As we came up, Chief had just chopped out 
a smooth surface on the side of a small tree, 
and there, for the first time and onl}^ in all 
our wanderings, so far as I can remember, we 
inscribed our initials and the date of our visit. 

Even then I think we all apologised to our- 
selves, for, next to a mussy camp-ground, there 
is nothing much more unsightly to the true 
camper than to see the trees around a favourite 
camping site disfigured with personal names 
and personal remarks, which never fail to re- 
mind one of the old adage taught the small 
boy in his early youth when he receives his 
first knife. 

And one more name we left behind, not 
carved upon a tree but in our memories. All 
day the thought of one who loved the hills 
as we did ourselves was in my mind, and 
though she could not be with us, yet did I 
long to share our treasures with her. On the 
lake's west shore rose a fine symmetrical 
peak, and as we stepped cautiously aboard our 




c3 
><! 

> 
>> 



255 



256 Old Indian Trails 

craft (I never could get over the idea that she 
would go over with a sneeze), I said: "With 
every one's sanction I call that peak Mount 
Mary Vaux. " There was no dissenting voice. 

Foot by foot we left it all behind- — the 
flowers, the tumbling avalanches, the great 
rock masses we had named, the untra versed 
valleys, and the beautiful falls. 

The day was dying fast; as we glided by 
the tempting coves, and swept through the 
narrows,- — now "Sampson's Narrows," — the 
setting sun touched a symmetrical snow- 
tipped peak on the eastern shore of the lake, 
the dark waters before us catight up the pic- 
ture, threwback to us an inverted rosy summit, 
and we named it "Sampson's Peak" for him 
who had sketched us the little map. The 
heavy rhythmic breathing of the rowers and 
Muggins's occasional sighs were the only draw- 
backs to absolute and perfect enjoyment; 
but for the tense faces before us and the 
tenser muscles, we could have looked ahead 
and aloft and said,^ — "This is Paradise." 

As we came into port under the shadow of 
Mount Unwin, the sweet odour of the vetches 
came out to greet us, the sun sank behind the 
hills, the winds died away, every ripple of the 
lake disappeared, even the mosquitoes ceased 




A Stoney Indian's Tepee Nestled among the Poplars on the Kootenai Plains 



257 



258 Old Indian Trails 

to bother us; The Thumb, Mounts Warren, 
Unwin, Sampson, and many other unnamed 
peaks were dyed in crimson, which changed 
to purple, to violet, then night with its cloak 
of darkness fell. As the evening's camp-fire 
was lighted, there came across the water the 
distant bark of a coyote, overhead passed 
a few belated duck; except for these there 
seemed no other life than that of our little 
family hidden there in the wilderness where 
"home" had never been before. 

The weather on Sunday morning, July 12th, 
refused to take any action on all adverse signs 
of the previous evening and burst upon us 
clear, bright, and best of all, calm. There is 
little joy in the prospect of a trip on a large 
mountain lake with only a few logs between 
you and the depths below, and a storm either 
imminent or in progress, so every one was 
thankful. The day was warm, it became 
absolutely hot; by 8.30 camp equipment and 
all hands were each in their allotted space, the 
steady splash-splash of the sweeps broke the 
glass-like surface about us, and the mountains 
and islands reflected in the lake, cast about 
us a fairy -land as we pushed away from them 
into broader waters. After tying up for a 
short rest and lunch, we arrived at our original 




K 




O 



259 



26o Old Indian Trails 

starting-place at 6 p.m., thus ending probably 
the first voyage ever taken on Maligne Lake. 

On reaching land we turned and took a 
last look at our little craft. Built without 
nail or spike, held together with wooden pegs 
and lash-ropes, every ugly line in little H. 
M. S. Chaba was endeared to us. She had 
carried us far and safely, and now, with regret, 
we left her there on those lonely shores where 
other travellers some day may find and use 
her. Returning to our original camp we found 
all well and in order, and in an hour no one 
would have realised we had just returned from 
a maiden voyage. 

The next day the homely duties of washing 
and mending engaged some of us, while others 
searched for a trail to the lower end of the 
lake. The night of the 13th was one of the 
worst we had ever endured in camp. Heat 
and a brewing storm brought out every mos- 
quito for miles around I am sure. Donning 
our hats and "bug-nets," we stowed ourselves 
away in the suft'ocating sleeping-bags, expect- 
ing the usual change before midnight. No- 
thing came but more mosquitoes, which 
hummed and howled and prodded the protect- 
ing net till sleep became well-nigh impossible. 
Toward daylight I rose in my wrath and, with 



Maiden Voyage on the "New" Lake 261 

a swoop, switched out a perfect cloud of the 
brutes, hit "M." on the nose, and woke 
her unintentionally from a sound sleep- — the 
sleep a marvellous fact to me considering 
the circumstances. 

We then and there vowed to get even with 
our tormentors, so the minute breakfast was 
over, out came the netting, nail-scissors, and 
shoe-thread. While I measured and sewed, 
"M." hovered over me with a big balsam 
bough which she kept switching, and by after- 
noon we could sit placidly in our tents and 
defy the thousands of impudent little bills 
presented at our front door. 




Sivimming the Horses at the Mouth of Maligne Lake 



CHAPTER V 



THE TRIBULATIONS OF THE INVESTIGATOR 



'"PHE next day between showers camp 
-"■ was broken, and we soon hit an old 
Indian trail bound for the lower end of the 
lake. This trail, in places, must be from five 
to seven hundred feet above the water, over 
high cut banks. From the moment of finding 
it, the distance of eight or ten miles w^as both 
interesting and very easy and but little cutting 
was necessary. At the lake's outlet w^e found 
that a comparatively recent fire from the 
north had burnt an area of about half a mile 
on the western shore, the only blemish in the 
lake's whole twenty-mile length of exquisite 
green. 

262 



Tribulations of the Investio^ator 263 



On a high bank overlooking the mouth of 
the lake our three tents were soon pitched 
in the burnt timber, the beds were pumped 
up, the fire-place arranged, the horses turned 
out to feed, our lake lay spread before us, and 
life looked as serene as the sunshine about us. 
We investigated the outlet, which, though 
showing considerable volume, looked calm, 
and it seemed a more or less easy crossing 
with a swim of only a few yards in the centre 
of the stream (which was probably not more 
than fifty yards wide). After a smooth flow 
of about two hundred yards, the water plunged 
over a steep, rocky bed and we could hear it 
pounding and roaring as it rushed on its way 
to join the Athabaska. As " M. " and I sat at 
the water's edge, we sized up the situation 
for a short and exciting swim to the other 
side on the morrow, for it was across there 
we could see fine feed, and there seemed a 
strong probability that the trail to the Atha- 
baska lay that way. 

Considering our aspirations, the next move 
seemed a more or less providential affair. 
Not that we were in the habit of rushing head- 
long into deep rivers, still we might have 
ventured; there was certainly nothing terrify- 
ing in appearances in that placid body of 



264 Old Indian Trails 

water, only a few yards of it where, through its 
crystal clearness, we could plainly see a horse 
would be far beyond his depth. 

Returning to camp for lunch, "M.," in 
an idle moment, got out the binoculars and 
sat silently at her usual stunt, gazing at the 
mountains opposite for any geological phe- 
nomena. After a few moments she said in her 
quiet way, ''I see goat." That was enough. 
The poor binoculars, which were always 
"catching it" for their inability to perform 
their proper functions, were eagerly sought by 
the masculine element, who soon announced 
two goats and a kid, and in a few moments 
two nannies and two kids. As soon as we 
could locate them, they could be quite easily 
seen with the naked eye leisurely strolling over 
the grassy slopes a couple of thousand feet 
above the lake. 

"K." decided that a stew of kid was not to be 
despised (no one craved elderly goat after our 
former experience), so stuffing some clothes, 
the binoculars, and the camera in a waterproof 
bag and mounting Ricks, a strong swimmer, 
he dropped over the bank to the well-marked 
ford and started in. Knowing he would have 
the swim which " M." and I had been hoping 
to take for the fim of it, I went to the edge 



Tribulations of the Investigator 265 

of the bank to watch the proceedings, Httle 
thinking what was coming. I was astonished 
to see the horse protest violently at being put 
into that nice stream, and astonished still 
more to see that in a few yards the shallow- 
looking water was sweeping to the top of the 
saddle. Then, to my amazement, I beheld 
the ever well-behaved Ricks thrashing and 
striking the water violently, then suddenly 
turn over backward, and " K." shoot out of the 
saddle. Craning my neck still farther, I saw 
"K." swimming for shore and the horse, with 
head under and feet up, being borne quickly 
towards the rapids only a hundred yards 
below. 

I turned away. One of the best horses gone 
and "K." perhaps washed into that awful mael- 
strom before he could get out ! — all for a bit 
of fresh meat ! Telling the others what I had 
seen, we stood there dumb for an instant and 
then, oh, the relief ! Through the willow brush 
they all returned, Chief leading a draggled, 
crestfallen horse, and " K." just behind with a 
very puzzled face over the whole performance. 

Soaked and shivering, he waited till Dandy 
(also a strong swimmer) was brought in, then 
returned again to the river, this time hitting 
the water a little above the first attempted 



266 Old Indian Trails 

crossing. But no more watching for nie; I 
viewed the affair by proxy now,- — keeping 
out of sight and noting progress in the 
countenances of those who had more nerve. 
I was watching "M.'s" face. It suddenly 
stiffened, she leaned forward in a tense at- 
titude, then without turning, called out: 
" Dandy 's gone under! " K." has been tossed 
off and is swimming to shore!" Then: 
"Dandy can't right himself, he is drown- 
ing!" Chief, who was standing near, turned 
away, saying: "There is a dead horse for 
you; his foot is caught in the halter-shank!" 
I could not look; our beautiful, willing, gentle 
Dandy lost in that horrid river! I thought of 
all his virtues, just as I had been thinking of 
" K.'s" the first time he was pitched oft' and 
before I knew what a splendid swimmer he 
was. And all for an old yellow goat! Then 
looking at Chief's face again, I saw it eased of 
its set expression as he said, "He 's swimming, 
he 's up, he 's out!" and I rushed forward to 
see Dandy, only five minutes before bright- 
spirited and handsome, slowly emerging from 
the water, scarce able to drag one foot after 
the other, yet it was Dandy alive, but on the 
far side of the river. Head down, the rifle still 
hanging from the saddle, he stood there alone. 



Tribulations of the Investigator 267 

" K. " determined to swim across immediately 
to get him, but the family vetoed any more 
risks in that river, and Chief suggested lashing 
together a few logs and rafting over. 

After two such experiences the mild-looking 
outlet of the great lake could hold but one 
solution, there must be an undertow, so to 
speak, the force of which was so great that 
the moment a horse carrying man, saddle and 
rifle, was caught within its vortex, it bowled 
him over. 

With plenty of dry timber lying around, the 
men were soon chopping, hauling, and lash- 
ing together logs, and we, desirous of doing 
something to relieve the tension, proceeded 
to dry some of the numerous soaked garments 
which festooned the surrounding bushes. 
Then we suddenly realised something was 
amiss, an ominous quiet pervaded the atmo- 
sphere, and, looking up, we realised that the 
other twenty-one horses were hitting the back 
trail, the tails of the last two or three just 
disappearing beyond a rolling hill. 

Here was something useful to do. Shod 
only in canvas sneakers, I flew to head off 
those aggravating horses. After a mile's 
chase, I arrived at a point of vantage and 
paused a moment to watch the speed at which 



268 ^ Old Indian Trails 

those hobbled horses were getting over 
ground. Old Pinto was leading, his bulky, 
stubby body sawing up and down, as he rapidly 
put distance between his all-too-willing fol- 
lowers and their legitimate abode. 

Then I found myself on the wrong side of 
quite a deep stream (as well as my temper), 
so grasping the only weapon I could find (a 
club), I skipped down, sprang into the water, 
and landed, a figure of Vengeance, among the 
surprised bunch of culprits. Impudence suc- 
ceeded surprise, and a look of "What have 
you to say about it?" came over their faces. 
"A good deal!" And I shook my weapon at 
the greatest sinner- — Pinto. With the kitten- 
ishness of an elephant, he skipped just out of 
reach and remained so all the way back, and 
to this day has not had the drubbing he so 
rotmdly deserved. The others, absorbing 
Pinto's defiance, promptly spread themselves 
over the landscape like the sticks of a fan, ut- 
terly ignored the trail, and made themselves 
generally disagreeable. Heated, exasperated, 
and with soaked shoes, I finally landed them 
back at camp. 

The men were still working desperately on 
the raft, so the rest of us, coaxing in the few 
unhobbled horses with salt, soon put a quietus 



Tribulations of the Investigator 269 

on rapid locomotion, and the salt put a 
quietus on our driving them beyond the camp 
limits. They hung round nosing into every- 
thing and kept us busy driving them out of 
the pans and grub-boxes. In the midst of 
our efforts, Baldy, a four-year-old pet, was 
spied behind a bush calmly making a meal on 
a piece of laundry. I think he was cutting 
his second teeth, and lovable though he was, 
he had been more nuisance on the trail than a 
puppy in a drawing-room, chewing the straps, 
ropes, and pack-mantles of any of his pals who 
chanced at the time to be sharing the trail 
with him. 

As clothes did not grow on trees in that land, 
some one had to rescue that shirt, so some one 
started for Baldy, whose flight through the 
forest was made plain by the bright bit of 
waving colour. He was finally rounded up 
between two trees, the thoroughly masticated 
sleeve was drawn from his throat, and in time 
the labourers knew that some of us had not 
been idle. 

At last the raft was completed and " Chef" 
and "K." pushed out into the lake, making 
a wide circle to avoid the current. Dandy, 
who had never moved in the hour and a half 
since the catastrophe occurred, saw them 



270 Old Indian Trails 

coming and gained heart sufficiently to sample 
the grass around him. 

With bated breath, we watched the bulky 
old raft piloted safely past that uncertain exit 
and into shore on the other side. Dand}^ was 
reached, the saddle and the rifle were removed, 
and then he was invited to recross the river. 
Poor fellow, after so recent and miserable an 
experience, he had no desire to again place 
his life in jeopardy, and rushed up and down 
the bank to avoid his rescuers. It looked 
for the moment as though he would have to 
be left there, but a little incident turned the 
scales. Just as matters were beginning to 
look hopeless, two of his special chums came 
to the bank opposite him and coaxingly 
whinneyed to him. Hearing their call, he 
plunged in, sank utterh^ from sight for a 
moment, then his nose and ears becoming 
visible, he struck for our side and in a few 
minutes every one was patting and making 
a fuss over him, and in our hearts we were 
saying, "A well named river, 'IMaligne.' " 

As the sun went down that night and the 
slanting rays fell on the far green slopes, the 
once coveted bunch of goat was still strolling 
peacefully about, but had no longer an}^ charms 
for us. 



Tribulations of the Investigator 271 

The following day was devoted to looking 
for a trail to the Athabaska, " K." being rafted 
over to the east shore for a search on that side, 
while I, in a moment of aberration or overzeal 
for the situation, followed Chief on the west 
side as he scoured the country for miles, look- 
ing for a possible way out for horses. At every 
turn we were met with burnt timber, ravines, 
and unsurmountable walls of rock, till, after 
six hours' trudging, we turned back weary and 
discouraged. Flowers new and rare bloomed 
everywhere, but I would n't have undertaken 
to carry even a match by that time, and camp 
looked pretty good to us when we struck it 
at 5 P.M. 

" K." returned with a better report. He had 
found an old trail on his side of the river, but 
much cutting would have to be done before 
it would be passable. However, it was enough 
encouragement for us, and we woke the next 
morning to hear lots of chopping going on; 
some one had begun bright and early to rein- 
force the emergency raft,' — we were to cross 
to the other side that day. Nobody was 
specially jovial at the prospect, considering 
how near we had come to losing two good 
horses the day before, and, but for the fact 
that he was a strong swimmer, a good man 



2^2 Old Indian Trails 

also. But the Athabaska via the Maligne, 
could be only thirty miles away at the most, 
while, by the only other route, it was over one 
hundred. 

As Dandy had made his return journey 
safely when freed of all impediments, it only 
remained to be seen if the smaller horses 
could stem that bad river ; if they made it all 
right, we and all our belongings were to be 
rafted over where horse-feed was plentiful. 

With breakfast despatched, all minds turned 
to the horse-drive. Hobbles were removed, 
'' K. " went down to the water's edge on Nibs 
to give encouragement to the others, while 
Chief on Dandy shot here and there through 
the fallen timber trying to force the other 
twenty to follow. Pinky, reaching the water's 
edge first, held the key to the situation and 
refused to budge or even touch that river, 
and as none of the others claimed his position, 
he just stood there betraying no sign that he 
heard any of the rumpus behind him, or that 
he, with the others, was "going to catch it 
shortly." "M.," with a collection of cam- 
eras, stood on the bank, running the risk every 
few moments of being bowled over into the 
water by one of the fraternity slipping away 
from the main bunch and banging into her. 



Tribulations of the Investigator 273 

It soon proved useless ; Chief could drive them 
to the edge, but there it ended. Fresh tactics 
must be tried. " K. " came up and , with Chief, 
drove the whole bunch down to the old 
ford. 

I looked no longer. Some one was liable 
to be drowned; even the Twins grew dear as 
I realised we might never see them more. 
I stood out of sight and waited; the yells and 
threats ceased ; there was a dead silence ; then 
up from the water came a snorting, blowing 
and splashing; I rushed over to "M." just in 
time to snatch up one of the cameras and train 
it on the draggled-looking horses as they were 
emerging on the far side. Old Fox had led 
off and the others had followed according to 
disposition. The Twins, on whom so many 
doubts had settled, went sailing and bobbing 
over in the same reckless and irresponsible 
fashion in which they did everything else. 

Then down came the tents, all the baggage 
was hustled and tumbled to the water's edge, 
the old raft made five or six trips, and we 
landed on the beautiful meadows on the 
other side. 

As a storm threatened, and I was n't much 
success at carrying flour and bacon into dry 
quarters, I offered to go in search of the horses 
18 



274 Old Indian Trails 

who had silently stolen away while every one 
was busy. The offer was accepted and Mug- 
gins and I went off to look them up. In a few 
minutes we had picked up their trail; the 
threatened storm disappeared, the sun burst 
forth, and on we walked. Fine meadows, 
dotted with ponds of clear water, followed 
each other with great regularity, but not a 
sign of the horses. Their tracks led us on 
over one knoll after another, it grew hotter 
and hotter (so did I), then, while Muggins 
was after a grouse, I heard the distant clang 
of the bells and, climbing one more knoll, 
looked down upon the twenty-two sinners. 
Momentarily they cared nothing for all that 
luscious grass, but, bent on having a lark 
after their cold swim, were enjoying a regular 
picnic. A sortie of a mile or so got them 
just where I wanted them- — ahead of me, 
then, cross and tired, I started for them with 
a club. In a trice they were off to the hill 
from which I had first spied them; then 
Pinto threw his tail in the air, fifteen or more 
followed suit, and before I could move they 
were out of sight and were thundering towards 
camp. Tired as I was and utterly deserted, 
the uncommon frivolity was so ridiculous that 
I sat down and laughed, then sauntered back 



Tribulations of tlie Investigator 275 

home and arrived in time to see the culprits 
getting their deserts — hobbles. 

That evening as the sun went down, it 
cast a most gorgeous colour over the lake. 
The white summits of Warren, Unwin, and 
Maligne changed to rose, then, merging into 
a violet tone, slowly disappeared with the 
coming of night. 

Around the camp we discussed the proba- 
bilities and possibilities of reaching the main 
Athabaska by this route. " K.", who had 
made the only inspection, dwelt on the fearful 
amount of down- timber, but, with his accus- 
tomed grit, and, knowing that the only other 
route meant quite a hundred miles, advised 
the attempt of cutting a way through. 
' ' Chef ' ' was to take charge of camp and the 
useless members of the household for two 
days, when one of the choppers would return 
and let him take his turn at the front. 

The morning of July 20th was hot and 
clear; Chief and ''K.", with their axes and two 
days' grub, pulled out of camp about 7.30. 
Nobody said much; you learn to take a 
great deal out in thinking on the trail, and 
both sides of the situation were doing their 
full quota at this particular time I 'm sure. 
We had been in similar straits before, and 



276 Old Indian Trails 

*'M." and I at least knew what it all meant. 
Hard labour with heat, flies, and mosquitoes 
by day, and a camp-fire and no blankets at 
night, are not the most joyful conditions to 
contemplate or endure. Camping and ex- 
ploring are great fun until you reach the point 
where you must see others suffer for your 
hobby, and then, if you possess even the 
smallest amount of conscience, you feel most 
mortally mean and uncomfortable. 

As we watched the faithful disappearing in 
the distance, gone without a murmur or com- 
plaint, we both felt "pretty low in our minds." 
The day passed with nobody in camp active 
except the bugs. By noon the thermometer 
registered 90°; a breeze from the lake sprang 
up and blew away the mosquitoes ; ' ' Chef," in 
looking after the welfare of the horses, got a 
couple of grouse, and we all agreed that they 
should be roasted for the workers. Prepared 
and cooked before the wood fire in the reflector 
they make a wonderful addition to the daily 
fare of bacon. The Botanist went off for a 
stroll to investigate the hill-tops where we 
had seen the goat, and on his return brought 
with him specimens of an exquisite alpine 
bluebell which he said grew in great profusion 
above tree-line. 



Tribulations of the Investigator 277 

We did not expect our men that night, 
nor did they come. As the air in the moun- 
tains always grows cool with the departure 
of the sun, we sat wrapped in our buck- 
skins watching the rays of an aurora and 
thought of the absent ones as we tucked our- 
selves away for the night in our blankets, 
for once despising our comforts as we knew 
they had only a fire before which to turn and 
turn about in order to keep warm. 

A similar day passed, except that the 
evening brought in a weary pair heralded by 
Muggins, who seemed glad to get back home 
where every slice of bacon was not counted. 
Reports were not encouraging; they had cut 
about five miles, but the burnt district seemed 
limitless and the nearer they got to Medicine 
Lake the heavier was the timber. The pre- 
vious night had been pretty cold, and, what 
with working all day in the heat and stoking 
their fire all night, they were going to arrange 
a different plan of campaign. 

At dusk the horses strolled in, apparently 
just for a visit, got a little salt all round, and 
strolled off leisurely again to the meadows. 

The next attack on that wood-pile came 
the following day, when a horse with tent, 
blankets and food pulled out and the entire 



278 Old Indian Trails 

masculine contingent, accompanied by the 
Botanist, who was to bring back the horses, 
were off. 

What a grand day that was in camp, 
not a soul to pry into our domestic efforts! 
I had been bothered with the old familiar 
odour to my blankets, the efforts to rid them 
of it on the Saskatchewan had not been suc- 
cessful, and I had vowed to wash them again 
the moment no one was looking. When I 
saw the last of those four men I knew what 
was going to happen. 

With a lake of clean water, with soap, 
energy, and sunshine, I saw a chance of elimi- 
nating some of the annoyance; and washing 
as the wash-ladies of foreign lands, the blan- 
kets were soon sweet and dry in the hot 
sunshine. 

Then the Botanist returned at sun-down 
with the information that the chopping that 
had to be done was something terrible; the 
horses came in for their salt, clouds all steeped 
in deep rose decked the sky, so trouble and 
beauty met. 

Seven miles away our men were working 
to cut a trail through to the Athabaska, 
and we sat there by the lake dreading the 
hour wc had to leave it all. But it had 



Tribulations of the Investigator 279 

to come. On the fifth night they walked 
in weary and worn, and black as crows from 
the burnt timber, reporting "that weeks of 
labour would not put us through, and the 
longest way round would eventually be the 
shortest." Disappointed as we all were, it 






' When I saw the last of those four men I knew what was 
going to happen" 



was a lovely night in our home; forest fires 
from the south veiled the distant peaks with 
a smoky softness. It was tensely quiet, 
not even the lap -lap of the water from the 
shore. Then the pall-like stillness broke. 
A queer, wild laugh came over the water 



28o Old Indian Trails 

again and again ; it was the loon calling his 
mate. 

The following morning the horses were put 
across the river, the raft took us and our 
baggage safely over, and we camped for the 
night on the western side. 

On the morning of July 24th, a tattoo 
on the tin wash-basin at five o'clock woke 
every one for an early start. It had rained 
hard in the night, not a sign of haze or 
smoke had been left in the air, and every- 
thing was as dazzHng as water could make 
it. By seven o'clock, leaving the poor dis- 
carded raft to its fate, we said farewell to 
the only kingdom we could call our own. 
With the last of the night's storm-clouds 
rolling away from the high peaks, with 
shadows and sunshine racing in mad con- 
fusion across her rippled waters, the lake was 
just as fair and beautiful as the day we first 
met her. Then we turned the corner, she 
was gone, and we hurried along. How we 
did hurry too! The horses, in spite of their 
packs, cantered along remembering the camp- 
ground ahead of them, and as w^e came into 
Chaba Camp, Bessie's joy burst all bounds, 
and she went bucking and scampering around 
in a most absurd fashion. But oh, the crest- 



Tribulations of the Investigator 281 

fallen expression when orders from the rear 
drove them on: down went their heads and 
they marched the next seven miles solemnly 
to Camp Eureka. 




Pobokton Pass 



CHAPTER VI 

THE JOYS OF POBOKTON VALLEY AND THE 
SUN WAPTA 



JULY the 27th should have been Friday 
and a black one at that, instead of which 
it was Monday- — and blue. As grumbling 
aloud is out of order on the trail, I poured out 
my sentiments that night to the long-suffering 
diary thus: "Hobson's Choice Camp. Thank 
goodness we are here, though goodness knows 
it is little to seem thankful for! 

" Leaving Castillea Camp with only a two- 
mile drive to Pobokton Creek, and about six 
from there to the Sun Wapta according to the 
map, and with Dr. Coleman's trail of 1892 to 
assist us, no one dreamed of trouble. So off 

282 



Pobokton Valley and Sun Wapta 283 

we started with far brighter prospects than 
usual in taking an untried course. We had 
reckoned on three hours' travel, but had 
reckoned in blissful ignorance. 

"From the moment we struck the Pobokton, 
troubles assailed us. Muskeg, a few yards of 
good going in green timber, log jumping, 
more muskeg, much cutting, a good stretch, 
a bad stretch, followed on the heels of each, 
till at 5 P.M. there came a regular jam! We 
could plainly see where Dr. Coleman's axe 
had been used down the whole valley, but 
since his trip many a wind had swept that 
way, and the advance was cut off by a game 
of giant jackstraws. In a thick bunch of 
pine the men left us and went off to recon- 
noitre and chop. The tired and hungry 
horses stood around dejectedly, a few straying 
off in a disheartened sort of way, to nibble 
a few spears of grass which had the courage 
to grow on that dreary hillside. As it was 
hard to keep track of the whole twenty-two 
in that thick timber, we tied up the worst 
stragglers, occasionally rounded up the others, 
and spent the rest of the time listening to 
the distant sound of the axes and wondering 
if we ever had been quite so miserable before. 

" Everybody was hungry and I added 



284 Old Indian Trails 

neuralgia to my woes. The sun was fast 
descending to the horizon and, scanning the 
heavens, *M.' and I concluded that a good 
downpour would just about complete our 
discomfiture. So we thought till we heard 
a wind coming down the valley. It grew 
louder, then swooped with full force into the 
dead pines among which we were standing, 
with a creaking and cracking enough to 
make one shudder. We untied the horses 
to let each have his chance to jump, and just 
about then came the welcome call, 'Drive 
up the horses!' No one hesitated, but just 
drove, and for five hundred yards there was 
some pretty tall jumping. Then we struck 
green timber once more, somebody in the 
lead stirred up a hornet's nest, and there was 
great exhibition of speed for a few moments. 
Reaching the river there was no favourable 
crossing to the good feed on the other side, 
so here we are to spend the night." 

Thus ended one of our few dreary days. 
Three miles of trailing the next morning 
brought us to good feed and to a point where 
we were to part company with the Botanist, 
"Chef," and nine of our horses. 

They carried many letters and messages 
to the outside world for us as well as our best 



Pobokton Valley and Sun Wapta 285 

wishes for their safe crossing of the Saskatche- 
wan, which at that time would still mean 
swimming. As " K." was going with them for 
a few miles he shouted back the familiar 
caution, "Don't meddle in the kitchen while 
I am away," so we promptly went to work 
and made some fish-cakes. Then Chief 
thought he would get in some fine work, and 
when I came back to camp half an hour 
later with a pail of strawberries, there was 
the loveliest fruit-cake just going into the 
reflector. The moment arrived to turn it, 
and we all stood watching the performance. 
(No amount of time or numbers of bannocks 
or cakes on the trail ever cause the interest to 
pall when the turning operation takes place.) 
The deed was done, and the reflector being 
pushed gently and breathlessly back to the 
fire, when — slip ! bang ! went the hot puddingy 
dough into the ashes! Muggins, who had 
been greedily watching proceedings, was in- 
vited to partake, was nothing loth, and seemed 
none the worse later on. 

Not to be done out of his treat, Chief flew 
round to duplicate the dish and have it out of 
the way before "K." returned. In his hurry for 
some water, he picked up the enamelled fruit- 
kettle (one "K." never allowed us to use), and 



286 Old Indian Trails 

rushed to the river. But fate follows the evil 
doer. As he reached for the water, the force 
of the stream knocked it from his hand and 
away it went! Regrets were useless. We got 
the cake and it was good, but the memory of 
the lost pot lived with us the rest of the sum- 
mer. For the fruit had to be stewed in a tin 
pot, while any left-over puddings became 
rusty after standing a few hours, and " K." 
referred resignedly at such times to the 
enamelled pot which was lost through disobe- 
dience. It was all quite painful, still we sur- 
vived and can firmly deny that there can be 
any evil effect from eating acid on metal' — 
in spite of scientific proof. 

With our horses now numbering thirteen 
and our family reduced to four, we proceeded 
on the 30th down the east bank of the Sun 
Wapta, hourly comparing the route with the 
one taken on the west side of the same river 
the previous year. 

It was a toss-up which was the better of the 
two; I think we considered there was a little 
less muskeg, and a little less chopping, and a 
little less trouble generally where we were. 
Still it was "nothing to write home about," 
it was all quite mean enough. 

The trail had not been used for a long time, 



Pobokton Valley and Sun Wapta 287 

and there were spasmodic searchings in the 
indistinct places for it, while at one corner 
the river had carried it off bodily, and left us 
facing a raging torrent, all other advance 
cut off apparently by an impenetrable mass 
of fallen trees. Off came the axes from the 
saddles, the men disappeared, and "M." and 
I remained guardians of the horses, which, in 
our limited quarters , left four of them standing 
well on the edge of nothing, and no other spot 
to stray to but the river. We two communed 
silently with nature, the horses apparently 
did likewise, for fully twenty minutes. Then 
came the familiar call, "All right, we '11 
move up a bit ! " So well did the horses under- 
stand, that, without a hint from us, they pro- 
ceeded to get into line and slowly move on. 
All but Silver; he, poor fellow, had got so 
shunted in his restricted quarters that his 
back was to the river; he was sound asleep, 
and the impetuous Peter crowding past 
him for fear of getting left, caught on his 
pack, and the sleeping Silver was bowled 
head over heels into the water. The awaken- 
ing was a rude one but very effectual, and he 
went swimming hither and yon trying to get 
out of the rushing river. He was finally res- 
cued from a nasty log-jam and walked out on 



288 Old Indian Trails 

dry land carrying our duffel-bags, which we 
thought surely would have shipped an abun- 
dance of water. We examined them and to 
our joy and surprise found them intact, so 
tied them up, repacked, and pushed on to find 
fresh mud-holes and other obstructions. 

On August 1st we merged from the Sun 
Wapta valley and, following the undulating 
hills of the Athabaska River, came into camp 
on her rugged shores. From here we were once 
more entering new country to us (a pastime 
much more interesting than covering old 
ground), and these wide-open benches on the 
south side of the river proved very fascinating. 

We had at last traversed the full length of 
the Endless Chain (named the previous year) , 
and found at its farther end a busy little creek 
by which both white man and Indians had 
camped in earlier days. Not having done 
our full day's travel in miles, and feed ap- 
parently plentiful anywhere, we lingered only 
long enough to prowl through the willow- 
brush interspersed with grassy spots, and 
found the ground covered with huge wild 
strawberries. There had evidently been a 
very recent banquet there, for logs were ripped 
and torn in every direction,- — old Bruin had 
been feasting on ants as well as berries. 



Pobokton Valley and Sun Wapta 289 

Camping a couple of miles farther on, it took 
quite a little courage for "M." and me to re- 
turn the next day and pick berries, as we did; 
we were only spurred on in our good efforts 
by the knowledge that our men were spend- 
ing a hot day in the bush cutting a trail 
through a bad stretch of timber. But we 
accomplished our task by keeping up a loud 
conversation to warn Mr. Bear that we were 
around. 

The following day's travel was as delightful 
as turning the pages of an old book. The 
book was the trail, the pages turning as we 
crossed streams, brushed through forests, 
passed old camp-sites, read the significance of 
blazes on the trees, or pushed our way through 
recently fire-swept country. 

At one point, after a tough scrimmage on 
a rough side-hill, we entered a cathedral of 
spruces. So dark, dim, and silent was it, after 
the glare of the burnt country behind us, our 
eyes at first scarce took in the surroundings. 
Then we found ourselves in an Indian's winter 
quarters. Under the great black boughs he 
had built himself a tepee of poles and covered 
it thick with spruce boughs; against a tree 
leaned the boards on which he had stretched 
his marten skins; a pair of discarded snow- 



290 Old Indian Trails 

shoes lay near by, and at the door of the te- 
pee an old broken tom-tom which he had 
evidently used to scare away the evil spirits 
during the long winter nights. The picture 
was a depressing one, the thought of the lone 
hunter and his lonely nights breathed through 
every sign; some one bunched the straggling 
horses quickly together and we moved on again 
to a meadow nearby, which was simply a mass 
of gold, white, and crimson flowers, where the 
horses waded up to their necks in flaunting 
asters and other autumn flowers ; what a con- 
trast it was, all within a hundred yards! 

Climbing a low, sharp hill, we found our- 
selves looking down on the Athabaska rushing 
silently by. From every direction radiated 
well-marked game-trails, bunches of white 
wool hung on low branches, a favourite salt- 
lick without a doubt, and we wished we had 
time to hide nearby and watch the coming 
and going of the game whose tracks were 
everywhere. 

By this day's experience we were beginning 
to consider (barring mosquitoes, sand-flies, 
and such minor details) that travelling down 
the Athabaska was not such a bad matter 
after all, and looked forward to the next 
day's drive with interest and pleasure. 




291 



292 



Old Indian Trails 



Starting off cheerfully in the early morning, 
we soon reached a sharp bend in the river, 
where, swinging to the left, it plunged through 
massive walls two hundred feet high into a 
narrow canyon, which seemed to wind along 
indefinitely into the hills beyond. It was a 
very fine sight, but, on searching for our pre- 





Alount Ilouker 



viously well-defined trail, it seemed to have 
died a sudden death. 

For six miles we groped around the base 
of Mount Hardisty, over small fallen timber 
which cracked like pistol-shots under the 
horses' feet, and then stood guard over our 
steeds while the men searched for a way 
around a deep gorge, and at last, after hours 



Pobokton Valley and Sun Wapta 293 

of climbing on the interminable rolling hills 
in the hot sun, we made camp near a slough, 
which supplied fairly good horse-feed and, 
as usual, an abundance of flies. 

Mount Hardisty, one of the few named 
mountains in that country, where hunter, trap- 
per and prospector have travelled for many 
a year, brings to mind no joyous thoughts of 
the trail," — just heat, sand-flies, and weariness. 
Scenery we had to perfection. Away to the 
west of us lay the gap of the Whirlpool River, 
up which we had time to travel only in thought. 
For it is at the head of this river stand 
Mounts Hooker and Brown, printed on all 
maps up to ten years ago as two of the highest 
peaks of the Canadian Rockies. They had 
been reported by David Douglass, the English 
botanist, when he travelled through that 
country in 1826, and up to 1894 bad carried 
off the palm as between 16,000 and 17,000 feet 
high. Dr. A. P. Coleman, visiting that pass 
in 1894, climbed Mount Brown, promptly 
reduced its altitude to 9000 feet, and thus 
left Mount Robson (at the head of the 
Fraser River) to carry off the laurels of 
the eastern slope of the Rockies. The Whirl- 
pool itself has its rise in a curiously named 
little lake— "The Committee's Punch-bowl." 



294 Old Indian Trails 

Inquiring of an old-timer of the country the 
origin of the name, he said: "In the old days 
when the factors of the Hudson's Bay posts 
of the interior met those of the coast, a com- 
mon meeting-ground was chosen; it proved 
to be the little pool at the head of the Whirl- 
pool, and thus the name." 

All these facts passed through our minds, 
but the summer days were passing, we had 
many miles to go, equally other interesting 
things to see, and reluctantly gave up the 
Whirlpool trip for that year. 

Through the gorge below us flowed the 
swiftly-rushing, muddy Athabaska winding 
away into the indefinite distance among hills 
of which we had no slightest knowledge, and 
a rift far, far to the north-west suggested the 
possible valley of the Miette River, the high- 
way to our Mecca — the Yellowhead Pass. 
Would the way be kind to us, or the same 
as yesterday and many other yesterdays? 

Dr. Coleman's report had left much vague- 
ness, much to be surmised. On one point only 
were we clear, that was, — "buffalo prairies" 
had to be crossed, prairies where grass for 
the horses would be in plenty; perhaps 
the coming day, August 6th, would see us 
leaving rock-ledges and burnt timber behind 




295 



296 Old Indian Trails 

us and we be wandering in vast elysian 
fields, for the word ''prairie" certainly repre- 
sents miles of open country to most minds. 

For four miles of our way, having at last 
struck a real trail, we climbed up hills and 
slid down them, encountered annoyances of 
various kinds, then rode for an hour through 
a regular park where our horses crushed great 
bunches of strawberries under their feet, 
and where we occasionally sprang from our 
saddles, filled our hands with sprays of the 
crimson fruit, and sprang back to nibble at 
them leisurely as we rode along behind the 
packs. And then we suddenly emerged from 
the timber and struck the finest bit of feed 
we had seen for many a long day, where purple 
pea-vine, goldenrod, and bluebells grew to 
enormous heights in the tall grass. The horses, 
at the sight, kicked up their heels and were 
ready for lunch at once, but a masculine voice 
behind ordered every one on to the river's 
edge, where tepee-poles pointed out the 
camping-ground. 

The next day's travel was one of great 
beauty as we wandered through a chain of 
small grassy meadows, where flowers were 
gorgeous and where recent fires had wiped 
out the way to go, where streams of indefi- 



Pobokton Valley and Sun Wapta 297 

nite depths and crystalline clearness twisted 
their way through great bunches of willows, 
where the men made innumerable sorties 
trying to recover the lost trail, and we stayed 
with the horses and munched strawberries 
till they returned with the same old story, 
"Can't imagine where that trail has gone." 

And still in our ignorance we kept looking 
ahead for the "buffalo prairies," little dream- 
ing at the time that our pretty open sloughs 
were the "prairies." (I 've often wondered 
who named them.) Going, however, was per- 
fectly easy, and, with the Athabaska only a 
few hundred feet to our left, we decided we 
could not go very far wrong, so wandered 
blissfully on. 

Then we awoke to the fact that a hign 
bluff had intruded itself directly before us, 
which forced us to turn to the right and climb 
probably a hundred feet; again we advanced, 
a rocky fissure came into view, and the per- 
formance was repeated ; a third time our tired 
horses were forced to ascend the rough hill- 
side till we reached a bold and prominent point 
so far above the river that we could see for 
miles around us. A tiny thread of white in 
the green timber to the west seemed as though 
it must be the Miette River flowing from the 



298 Old Indian Trails 

Yellowhead Pass, while other stray threads 
just ahead showed where the Athabaska had 
split into many channels. 

Bewildered as to which way to go next, the 
men again left us to explore, while "M." and 
I took up oirr usual duty of minding the 
horses. 

The sun shone bright and clear over the 
great wild panorama. Did that western 
valley hold our dream- — were we at last to 
reach it? The Yellowhead Pass and Mount 
Robson,- — were they there? Where were the 
hundreds of prospectors, surveyors, etc., who, 
we had heard in the spring, were flooding 
that country? Was there no voice to rise 
out of all that wilderness and tell us which 
way to go or where to cross that swirling 
body of water? 

Our questions asked in silence came as 
silently back to us. The sound of our 
guides' footsteps on the rocks died away; 
Muggins put up a covey of partridges 
and tore off after them, his barks growing 
fainter and fainter. Yet there we stood alone 
with our patient beasts, only a little wind 
from the north keeping us company and, 
fort he moment, blowing off the tormenting 
flies. Then out of the vast solitude came a 



Pobokton Valley and Sun Wapta 299 

sound so refreshing, inspiring and exciting that 
even the tired horses raised their heads and 
we listened. Again it came, very faint and 
far off, but still it was true- — a horse-bell 
sounded across the river! Some one besides 
ourselves was travelling in that wide valley. 

It doubtless seems rather silly to even 
mention excitement from the mere tinkle of 
a horse-bell. But it was so. Two months 
had gone by since we had seen a face, heard 
a voice, or had news from any other world 
than our own. Even now our men were 
gone and only we caught that rare, musical 
note, for it came to us on the wind, sweeter 
than any opera note I ever heard. We scarce 
breathed lest we miss the sound of that 
old brass clapper as some stray horse moved 
slowly about in the distant forest, little 
dreaming what an object of interest he was 
to two lonely women perched high on a rock- 
bluff a mile or two away. 

Suddenly a rifle cracked and we fairly 
jumped with surprise. Had the people over 
there seen us- — we and our horses against 
the sky-line? Were they red or white? Would 
they ride into the open and signal to us? 
Questions, questions, and no answer. No 
sign of a horseman, no sign of a tent or 



300 Old Indian Trails 

tepee, just the silence and the soft winds 
floating by, and yet we listened. Then we 
awakened to the fact that far below us 
Chief was yelling for us to start the horses 
down the bluffs. Brave old-stagers, they 
understood. Just a word, they fell in line 
and slowly crept down without a moment's 
hesitation or misstep, and we slipped into an 
ideal camp-ground in the bend of the Atha- 
baska right opposite the mouth of the Miette. 
'Tdeal camp-ground" it certainly was, and 
others had found it so before us. With all 
wind cut off by the hills behind us, the horses 
could not feed for the flies, but chased up and 
down till darkness sent their tormentors to 
bed. 

With camp fixed up, the men went 
off to look over the next day's march, while 
I climbed over the bluffs for another look 
toward the Yellowhead. 

Darkness brought the men and much de- 
pressing information to be digested with 
supper. ' The lost trail had been found after 
a long hunt, located a couple of miles back 
in the hills; our own advance by the river's 
edge was cut off by a rock wall (which only 
game could scale) scarce two hundred yards 
away, and, to get out, we must retrace our 



Pobokton Valley and Sun Wapta 301 

steps over the rock-bluff down which we had 
travelled that day.' Hard lines, but the lines 
of him who insists upon penetrating a country 
he does not know. 

We stole rather dejectedly to our tents that 
night, leaving a bright camp-fire at the door 
where the horses promptly gathered and 
stood around in the pungent smoke. 




Athabaska River, Lookirig up the Miette Valley toward Yellowhead Pass 



CHAPTER VII 

ROCK-BLUFFS, GORGES, AND RESIDENTS OF THE 
ATHABASKA 

nPHE diary at this point speaks my mind 
^ better than any after-thought. It starts: 
''Friday, August 7th, Rock Bluff. I won- 
der why so much that 's uncomfortable 
happens on Friday. The sun rose this a.m. 
without the sign of a cloud. On the netting, 
stretched across our tent door, were hun- 
dreds of flies, batting their senseless heads 
to get in,^ — a great day for us when we in- 
vented that net. Just as 'hot water' was 
called, we heard the horses galloping in and 
making a frantic rush for our fireplace, where 
they had found relief the evening before from 
the stinging gnats. Our trials and our joys, 

302 



Athabaskan Gorges and Residents 303 

lived out together for so long, may make us 
love those horses very dearly, but with the 
glaring sun in the tent, about a million flies 
all over the horses, waiting to attack us the 
moment our noses reached beyond the con- 
fines of that patent curtain, while fifty-two 
iron-shod feet pounded and kicked up sand 
and ashes, is a situation trying to the sweetest 
disposition, and we could have loved them 
better at a distance. Impatient with con- 
ditions, I reached out for a towel and wash- 
cloth which I had left lying overnight on the 
tent-rope. Luckily the towel was there, but 
Bessie had got ahead of me with the wash- 
cloth. Nine-tenths of it had disappeared; 
the other tenth hanging from her black 
mouth told the tale. At breakfast. Chief, with 
a rather grim countenance, announced the 
fact that, before making the long detour to 
reach the trail in the hills, he meant to tackle 
the rock-bluff ahead of us. Personally, the 
suggestion made me shudder even though I 
had not seen the spot, but the set of his jaw 
was quite enough for me — it was no child's 
play he was attempting. 

"By nine o'clock we were packed up and 
off, crossing an arm of the river to an island, 
and back to the south shore again. Bessie 



304 Old Indian Trails 

was in a rather bucky mood (not at all un- 
usual), and 'M.' suggested it might be the 
wash-cloth lying heavy on her conscience. 
Fortunately, she was in the rear as we 
made a short stiff climb to a precipitous 
grassy bank, where a well-used game-trail 
gave comparatively good footing. I was 
coming slowly along on Nibs just behind 
Chief, who was leading Dandy, and was 
quite unprepared for a sudden plunge and 
kicking in front of me, till Chief called out: 
' Hornets' nest ; back out and try higher up ! ' 
We certainly did 'back out' without wait- 
ing for second orders. Dandy's position was 
most disconcerting; a hornets' nest plays 
fearful havoc on level ground let alone on a 
precipitous slope overhanging a wicked river, 
so, as I was next in line, I ascended several feet 
above, struck a parallel game-trail, and, keep- 
ing a top eye open for another hornets' nest, 
re-started the procession. Travelling slowly 
along, I spied a huge fellow sunning himself on 
a low rock by the trail. I sneaked quietly 
past him and the whole pack luckily got by 
without raising his ire. 

"Then we reached the sticking-point. As 
I looked over, I confess I shuddered at the 
thought of putting horses over such a place. 




A Neat Horse-Stunt on the Athabaska 



305 



3o6 Old Indian Trails 

To be sure a game-trail was there, but that 
was no comfort, for goat and sheep can go 
easily where no human foot can follow. 

"The pack-horses were solemnly tied up, 
*M.' and I held the saddle-horses, while Peter, 
the least useful member of society, was led 
forth and prepared for the experiment by hav- 
ing his saddle removed and a rope attached 
to the end of the halter-shank so that Chief 
might be down at the bottom and, through 
the rope, give the poor thing a little courage. 
'K.' was behind him for the same purpose. 

"For once Peter had things all his own 
way. They dared neither pull at his head 
nor hurry him from the rear. For a moment 
he looked bewildered and astounded, and 
then, taking in the situation philosophically, 
and realising what was expected of him, 
he stepped forward and made a desperate 
plunge; his front feet, striking the rock about 
half way down, gave him just the impetus for 
the final leap which landed him safely below. 
Bugler was the next and went over nicely, as 
as did Nibs also. Then 'M.' and I, sending 
our cameras rolling down ahead of us, got 
down ourselves and photographed the rest 
of the bunch doing one of the neatest horse- 
stunts I have ever seen. 



Athabaskan Gorges and Residents 307 

"With the horses safely down, saddlery, 
bedding and food came sailing after, and in 
an hour we were fixed up in camp with only 
a memory and a few films to recall the event. 
Hours of travel had been saved over the high 
hot hills and we wanted to praise the engineer 
of such a feat, but as he disliked a fuss, I 
decided to go and pick gooseberries for a pie 
instead. 

"The day being yet young, *K.' was to 
go on down the valley and see if by any 
chance he could locate 'Swift's.' In Mc- 
Evoy's Government Report,^ he mentions 
this true pioneer of the country and on his 
maps locates the spot where Swift may be 
found. 

We had seen quite enough of the river by 
this time to know that our horses could never 
swim it with their packs, and so thought a 
safe way of getting over was with Swift's boat. 
But how far away was Swift's, and then had 
he a boat, and would we ever be able to let 
him know we were on the south side of the 
river? Life has been resolving into interro- 
gation points these past few days. So taking 
some food in his pocket and telling us he might 

^ "Yellowhead Pass Route," Geol. Survey of Canada, 1900. 
By James McEvoy, B. A. Sc. 



3o8 Old Indian Trails 

not return till morning, 'K.' has left us and 
started off." 

Evening and a glorious moon arrived to- 
gether; it was too warm to need a fire, but a 
signal was lighted which would show up our 
little home if the absent one was wandering 
back late in the night. Ten o'clock came; 
he should have reached Swift's by that time. 
We extinguished our beacon and feU asleep 
thinking of "K." as having put up somewhere 
for the night comfortably. At five o'clock 
the next morning the thud of a horse's feet was 
heard, and "K." came quietly into camp. The 
history of his experience again answered a 
long-asked question : Why had Maligne River 
been so named? Leaving us the previous 
afternoon, he soon struck a well-marked trail 
and, passing two or three small lakes, reached 
the Maligne near its mouth. Though it was 
shooting past with terrific force, a well-defined 
trail led into the water and out again on the 
other side, so he forced his unwilling horse 
in, but quickly retreated; no horse could make 
it at that time of year anyway. 

Remembering McEvoy's comments on the 
conditions farther up the Maligne, he tied Pinto 
up, walked up about two miles, found a narrow 
canyon, dropped a tree across, and decided 



Athabaskan Gorges and Residents 309 

that, though difficult, it was possible to bring 
horses over. Rather than make the long 
return trip, he tried to put a tree across the 
river lower down. After much cutting it 
fell, fell in exactly the right spot, but the great 
volume of water caught the boughs and, as 
though they were straw, hurled the tree into 
the Athabaska only a few yards away, carry- 
ing with it the hope of making a short cut 
back. His solitary sandwich was eaten, his 
clothes still damp from the first attempt to get 
over on his horse, all his matches wet, no coat, 
the moon, which had lighted his efforts, slipped 
relentlessly behind the clouds, and he was 
forced to endure complete discomfort till early 
dawn shed light enough for him to cross the 
logs at the canyon. However, he had seen a 
bunch of horses and knew some one must be 
not far distant. 

After he had had breakfast and a couple 
of hours' sleep, we were on the move to the 
mouth of the Maligne to await further de- 
velopments. Soon after leaving camp, we 
struck the long-lost trail, which looked as 
though it had just come down from moun- 
tain climbing. It wound past the blue lakes 
of which "K." had told us, in which we saw 
large pike fish near the shore. Quantities of 



310 



Old Indian Trails 



tepee-poles proclaimed it a favourite fishing 
ground, but, as our meat supply was plentiful, 
we preferred pushing ahead to investigate 
the next situation. 

Just about noon we came on an open 




Site of Henry House on the Athabaska River 

prairie and could see conditions on the north 
side of the river which we so longed to 
reach. Opposite us lay all that remained of 
Henry House, an old North-west Fur Trad- 
ing Company's post. Built as a rival to 
Jasper House, located twenty-five miles down 



Athabaskan Gorges and Residents 311 

the river, the site was close to the water's 
edge, directly opposite the mouth of the 
Maligne. All that was left of it were the 
remains of two chimneys and a few charred 
logs. As I looked across at those silent senti- 
nels, back came the pictures of bygone days 
when the forest had been cut down around the 
site to avoid the enemy, when the beaver pelt 
was currency, when the Indians gathered 
there to trade the furs they had just brought 
over the Yellowhead Pass. 

All gone^ — the Indian, the beaver, the old 
log-house, just we modern people wishing some 
magician might raise the curtain of the past 
and show us the traders white and red making 
their journeys in the dead of winter, with dog- 
trains, over the frozen river. As I looked, a 
soft wind swept through the branches of an 
ancient spruce above my head, the little 
whispering sounds came down as if to tell 
me they had been there watching the doings 
at the old post in the old days, but alas, it 
was not for me. I could not understand the 
tongue of the rugged forester, so stole silently 
back to camp and watched the glorious sunset. 

All evening our talk turned on the well-de- 
fined trail we could see back of Henry House, 
on the distance to Swift's, on our chance of 



312 Old Indian Trails 

signaling some stray surveyor working close 
by on the Grand Trunk Pacific route, so our 
minds were naturally bent, even in sleep, on our 
hope of soon seeing some one. 

During the night a slight shower woke and 
then lulled us to sleep again. About three 
o'clock dawn was breaking, the birds begin- 
ning their morning songs with a first sleepy 
twitter. A fiy, a mosquito, or perhaps a 
mind, still dwelling on the probabilities and 
possibilities of the future, woke me. I sat up 
with a start; "M." was wide-awake listening 
too. Far away sounded our horse-bells, but 
they were an old tune by this time ; a distant 
roll of thunder drifted up the valley' — it was 
not that. "Did you hear some one call?" 
I asked. "I think I did." Then to our 
straining ears came a long call ; a second, then 
a third sounded. "Some one has seen our 
tents and is calling us from across the river! 
Why don't the men answer? " " M.'s " eyes 
were big as saucers. Finding my moccasins, I 
crept to the door of the tent, crawling from under 
the "bug-net," and listened. Again came 
the sound, but this time from the opposite 
direction and far back in the hills ,■ — a long clear 
note. All remained quiet in our guardians' 
tent,^ — dead to the world no doubt with the 



Athabaskan Gorges and Residents 313 

strenuous work of the last ten days. Sorry 
to wake them, but fearing to miss something, 
I listened once more to make sure that my 
ears did not deceive me, then called sharply: 
"Chief! Wake up, don't you hear those 
voices calling?" A sleepy voice came back: 
"For heaven's sake go to sleep; it 's only a 
coyote!" Coyote! I slipped foolishly back 
to the tent feeling exceedingly small and 
tenderfooty. 

As described, the cry of those animals was 
"dismal, " while this was a high clear note; so, 
muttering excuses and self -apologies, I crept 
into the blankets, dreading the laugh that I 
knew would be my portion at the breakfast- 
table. 

At seven o'clock the men were off to cut a 
trail around the canyon and " M. " and I were 
busy housekeeping. 

At noon, while at lunch, we took an in- 
ventory of our morning's labours. A thin 
and meagre-looking bannock testified to our 
unaccustomed energies in that direction, a 
fine batch of fish-cakes made us hungry to 
look at them, while our efforts at a cake 
resembled a Chinese puzzle more than an 
article of diet. The, last made of apricots, 
prunes, currants, figs, bacon-fat and sugar, all 



314 Old Indian Trails 

bound together with graham flour, seemed a 
poem to our partial eyes when we scraped the 
"gooey" stuff into the reflector, and a woe- 
begone-looking mess when it came out. But, 
with the return of the hungry trail-cutters, I 
noticed it disappeared like the dew from the 
grass. 

With the advent of the diaries late in the 
afternoon, we discovered that the day was 
Sunday. No church-bells rang. There was the 
distant wash of the river mingled with the lazy 
ring of the horse-bells, a fitful bee blustering 
around, an occasional wind sweeping up the 
valley heralding its approach by a whisper in 
the distant tree-tops, then sighing musically 
in the poplars overhead. It came laden 
with the aroma of ground-cedar and brought 
to mind odours of long-ago Christmas trees. 
For the time forgot, a Sabbath peace fell with 
redoubled force over our little home. No 
church spire built by man could compare with 
the great rock walls of the Maligne ; no organ 
could speak so soft and low and true as the 
Athabaska winds, no incense smell so sweet 
as the warm breath of the spruce and cedar. 
A perfect Sunday. 

To one who loves it, there can be no mono- 
tony on the trail, small events are exciting 



Athabaskan Gorges and Residents 315 

and larger ones become thrilling, so that to 
us Monday was a record-breaker for action. 
Every one was out early, "M." and I eagerly 
anticipating the Maligne gorge of which the 
men spoke enthusiastically. Bearing away 
to the right of the trail, we were soon climbing 
over a hill covered with flowers, and entered 
the fresh-cut passage made by the men the day 
before. Fallen in though it was, they had 
found a way which had been used many years 
before and, to avoid extra work, had followed 
it as closely as possible. It led us along some 
very steep and narrow paths. As the 
canyon came into view it was really very 
beautiful, about the finest one in all that 
country, where canyons are so numerous. 

The climb became steeper as we advanced. 
Striking a sharp ridge, the trail clung to the 
very brink of the black chasm and showed a 
sheer drop of at least two hundred feet. The 
sight, and its close proximity, caused a little 
shiver to go through even our hardened nerves, 
especially at one point where it seemed like 
ascending a ladder into nothing. 

Overhanging it and high above this great 
amphitheatre, we rode; down below the 
waters boiled and thundered ; in pantomime we 
pointed to the streams issuing from the various 



3i6 Old Indian Trails 

strata, tumbling into large worn holes and 
from there plunging into the river in the deep 
canyon below. Then the amphitheatre closed 
to a narrow fissure, the thunderous roar was 
muffled, and we made our way through the 
last bit of timber and came to the edge of a 
very small stream. 

The powerful river which, only two miles 
away, was impassable, had, somewhere nearer 
its source, dropped almost out of sight, and 
only in the canyon just passed, had it gath- 
ered its forces together again for the last 
plunge into the Athabaska. Muggins was at 
first inclined to swim over but was given a 
free ride, and we were soon thankful that one 
more problem was solved. 

Having climbed about five hundred feet, 
we now had the pleasure of descending the 
same. Leaving the river, we came out on bare 
hills which gave us a fine panorama for miles 
around. The Miette, in the west, faded away 
into nothing towards the Yellowhead Pass, 
and the Athabaska trailed away to a silver 
line and was lost in the hills to the north-east. 

Of course we looked for Swift's, and * 'Swift' ' 
became the sole topic of conversation. Slid- 
ing and slipping anywhere down the slopes , we 
soon reached the river-fiats and came across a 



Athabaskan Gorges and Residents 317 

fine bunch of horses whom I felt hke asking if 
they knew Swift. However, we all stared at 
each other and our little party continued down 
the river where travelling was easy. 

About 1 .30 we came out on a knoll, and there 
lay Swift's. I wonder if three or four log 
buildings, a little fencing and a few acres of 
cultivated land ever caused much more ex- 
citement—not to any of us, anyhow. 

No one seemed to be moving around, we 
could see no boat, and the glasses showed 
no trail, so we decided the crossing must be 
lower down. Reluctantly we went on, hating 
to lose sight of that straw of refuge. 

When we had gone a mile or so below 
Swift's, the trail led us directly to a second 
bunch of shacks surrounded by wheat-fields and 
a small garden of cabbages, potatoes and tur- 
nips. On the other side of the river lay two 
dugout canoes lashed together. This must 
be John Moberly's, a half-breed of whom 
we had heard. Chief rode up to the house 
to investigate, but came back with the woe- 
ful intelligence that no one was home. This 
was enough to try the most sanguine spirit, 
but reading a crude notice on a tree at 
the river's brink, "Here 's the crossing," we 
decided to camp right on the spot, and our 



3i8 Old Indian Trails 

possessions were accordingly dumped there. 
"M." and I proceeded to take count of the 
situation while camp was being made. It was 
a mussy spot and showed signs of recent 
habitation. 

Over the door of the log-cabin hung sheep, 
goat and deer horns, and a tiny moccasin 
and an old shoe were tossed where the small 
owner had used them last. Peeping in the 
windows, quite free of curtains, it looked just 
as lonesome and free of comfort as the average 
shack which the breed inhabits. The true 
home of the Indian is certainly the tepee; 
when he takes to a house, he is sure to con- 
struct a dismal failure, from our point of view. 
Returning to the tree and again reading the 
notice "Here 's the crossing," we sat down to 
study it all out. Perhaps it ivas a crossing 
for anything that could swim three hundred 
yards, or coax over by will-power those 
canoes reposing so tantalisingly across the 
river. 

With the packs and saddles removed from 
the horses, "K." decided to fire a couple 
of shots with his rifle before getting lunch. 
Nothing materialised. Consequently the 
horses were turned loose, the tea was made, 
and we sat down to lunch, wondering how far 



Athabaskan Gorges and Residents 319 

Mount Robson and the Yellowhead Pass were 
from us. 

A grating, thumping noise from over the 
water suddenly arrested our attention and 
we beheld a man loosening the queer-looking 
craft and about to make his way over. It was 
Swift. Chief went to welcome him. " M." and 
I, in our excitement, forgot our unconventional 
garb and when he came up to join us, felt no 
reminder of our extraordinary appearance in 
his greeting. "Women in your party?" he is 
said to have exclaimed . ' ' Well , well , whatever 
brought them here? Prospecting or timber 
cruising? No? Now, look here, I 've been in 
this valley thirteen years and they 're the first 
white women I 've seen around these parts. 
Are you sure they aint prospecting? " He was 
courtesy itself. He told us "his woman" had 
heard the shots, so he came down promptly, 
knowing that Moberly and his family were 
away hunting. 

Two trips of the dugouts carried over all 
our household goods and provisions, then the 
horses were rounded up to be put across. 
This being a more or less painful operation, 
**M." and I discreetly withdrew from ear- 
shot. Swift and the men drove the poor brutes 
to the point where they must take to the 



320 Old Indian Trails 

water, no boat for them. From where we were 
standing, we saw them plunge into the water 
amid a perfect pandemonium of yells and 
sticks and stones. Old Fox led bravely off, 
but the moment the heavy current struck them, 
Dandy led a gallant retreat. Again they 
were driven in and again they returned under 
the same escort. They were then started 
off for the third time and, as they had had 
about enough of that shore reception, they 
continued to follow their leader. Across a 
wide expanse of muddy water they swam, 
looking more like a string of ducks than any- 
thing else. It was a long swim and the cur- 
rent heavy, so that not a back was visible, 
their noses and ears being the only part of 
them above water. Slower and slower went 
the little procession till, one by one, we counted 
thirteen dark objects creeping up the bank 
on the far side. Then , with a sigh of relief that 
our horses were over, we proceeded to sigh for 
ourselves at having to cross in those crazy- 
looking dugouts. This was accomplished 
safely in spite of a squall that strtick us with 
great force in mid-stream and dry land felt 
pretty good when we got there. 

By the time we could look around not a 
horse was in sight ; Swift's two little girls were 




^ 






u 



322 Old Indian Trails 

standing there glued to the spot, and not a 
word or a smile could we extract from either of 
them. No wonder. Later we found we were 
really the first white women those children had 
ever seen ; that they had been sent to tell their 
father to hurry home as a surveyor wanted to 
buy some potatoes, and that he was sending 
them back with a message frilled in his own 
inimitable fashion, that "two ladies had 
arrived and he was going to visit them and 
get all the news, potatoes or no potatoes." 
It made us feel like a travelling circus. 

Chief now started off in search of the 
horses, as did "K." also. The lowering clouds 
brought signs of rain, and Swift started for 
home. Then it really did rain. We covered 
our possessions as well as we could, made a 
fire which was small enough to go in your 
pocket, owing to the scarcity of fuel, then 
stood and shivered and felt pretty miserable 
standing there wet and alone on the banks of 
the wild Athabaska. Finally a scampering 
thud announced the return of the entire family, 
hobbles went on, tents went up, a slim supper 
was cooked. So scant was ground space that 
even the wet saddlery had to be piled in where 
our wet beds, wet duffel-bags, and wet clothes 
reposed. So gathering to my arms a nice hot- 



Athabaskan Gorges and Residents 323 

water bottle I crept under the blankets and 
the Athabaska's annoyances were drowned in 
dreams. 

Accepting Mr. Swift's invitation to camp 
near his home, we strolled leisurely up the next 
day, were met by our host, who was leading a 
very small boy in a very large hat, whom he 
introduced as "my son Dean Swift," and who 
used his eyes to effect to see those ' ' first white 
women." 

We had travelled far and had thought 
of ourselves as going farther and farther 
toward the end of nowhere, so that the un- 
expected civilised influences, into which we 
suddenly plunged, struck us strangely. Our 
tents were barely up when a hospitable pro- 
cession was seen making its way through the 
poplars. First came Mr. Swift carefully bal- 
ancing a pitcher brimming with new milk, little 
Lottie followed with a pail of new potatoes all 
cleaned and ready for the pot, while tiny Ida 
brought up the rear with a basket containing 
a dozen fresh eggs. Later came Mrs. Swift car- 
rying the youngest child, and, though her 
English was limited, we managed to get along 
nicely and returned the call in the afternoon. 

That pioneer's little house was very inter- 
esting. Thirteen years previously Swift, and 



324 Old Indian Trails 

his wife had penetrated here to make a home. 
By degrees, he had brought in his stock from 
Edmonton over three hundred miles of as bad 
a trail as can well be imagined, — cows, horses 
and chickens. His wheat-field was yellowing, 
the oats were still green and waving in the soft 
warm wind. By a mountain-stream he had 
built a mill for grinding his flour, and a large po- 
tato-patch was close by. His buildings were 
of logs, sound and solid, made entirely by him- 
self, his residence composed of one large room. 
Here we were welcomed by our hostess who 
showed us how comfortable a family of six 
could be in so small a space. Two slept in a 
good-sized bed, two in a sort of box, the baby 
in a home-made hammock, but where the sixth 
was stowed I never found out unless it was 
under the table. Everything was as neat as a 
pin. The chairs were of home manufacture 
and covered with skins, and it was all a lovely 
study of what may be done with next to no- 
thing in the land of nowhere. But when 
they offered to take us in too, during our stay, 
we simply marvelled, and rolled our eyes dis- 
creetly around to see where even these hospi- 
table people could possibly have discovered a 
corner in which to deposit us for the night. 
Seeing none, and being rather attached to our 



Athabaskan Gorges and Residents 325 

own comfortable beds, we decided to decline 
their kind offer. 

Then Mrs. Swift (oh, we women are all 
alike!) unearthed a box from beneath her 
bed and showed us a half dozen gowns made 
by herself, most of them her bridal finery, and, 
as we looked on the carefully treasured gar- 
ments , I realised- — be it mansion or shack — there 
is sure to be stowed away just such a precious 
horde around which a woman's heart must 
always cling. Then came her fancy-work 
which she did in the short winter days and the 
long evenings by candle-light, and we began 
taking a deep interest. She had quantities of 
silk embroidery on the softest buckskin I have 
yet seen. Her silks she dyed herself, and her 
patterns were her own designing. There 
was a most delicious odour to the skins which 
she said was through their being tanned 
by poplar smoke. Gloves, moccasins, and 
beautiful coats, we took everything and wished 
she had more; it was a grand afternoon's 
shopping for us all, for the lonely Athabaska 
woman and the two white women who had 
seen none of their kind for many a long day. 

That night we had fresh eggs for supper, and 
Mr. Swift and the little Swifts came to spend 
the evening with us. 




Moujit Robson from Grand Fork 



T 



CHAPTER VIII 

BOUND FOR MOUNT ROBSON 

O waken in the morning to the crowing of 
roosters, the lowing of cattle, and the dis- 
tant chatter of children, were strange sounds 
indeed to us who had lived so long with the 
winds, waters, and birds, that we had to think 
twice where we were when we first opened our 
eyes. Then in answer to the rattle of a pan 
at the kitchen fire, we dressed and hurried out 
to the creek for a hasty scrub before the big 
eyes of the three small observers should light 
upon us. 

Every one stood around interestedly at 
packing time and Mr. Swift paid Chief the 

compliment that, of all the outfits he had seen 

326 



Bound for Mount Robson 2>'^^ 

pass through, his was in the best condition. 
As it was now fully two months since we had 
been on the move, to see every horse round and 
fat, every hoof well shod, every back sound, 
and every coat sleek and glossy, we certainly 
did feel proud of our horses especially when we 
met other outfits. 

Leaving our kind host about 9 a.m., we 
headed for our last goal. Mount Robson. 
The day was warm and lovely and the trail a 
good one. On our left we passed Henry 
House and promised ourselves a visit to it on 
our return. An hour later we met John 
Moberly and his family returning from the 
hunt which had been a very successful one. 
Though there were several horses loaded with 
hides and meat, it looked far more like the 
moving of an orphanage than the return from 
a month's hunting expedition. John, with a 
small child in front of him, headed the band, 
two grinning kids on one horse followed, and 
so on till Mrs. Moberly brought up the rear 
in a dignified manner, carrying a small infant 
under one arm. In all, they counted eight, 
and I wondered how many white mothers 
would go on such a trip and look so placid on 
their return. She smiled a pleasant smile at 
our greeting and we each passed on our way. 



328 Old Indian Trails 

From the day we struck the valley of the 
Miette, we realised what the trails were. 
We had never seen a really bad one before. 

Our horses were in good condition, but what 
must the way have been to the footsore and 
weary? For years it had been a highway for 
trapper, prospector and surveyor, yet no one 
seemed to have taken time to remove a solitary 
obstruction they could possibly get around. 
We did likewise and grumbled at our pre- 
decessors. 

The hills were steep and stony while the 
valley was exceedingly soft. The bones of 
many a worn-out servitor strewed the line of 
march and we wondered how it was to fare 
with our own before the set task was accom- 
plished. 

Our second day's travel on the Miette was 
but a duplication of the first day's conditions, 
up over high rock-bluffs, then down into the 
sticky muddy bottoms where willows grew 
rank above our heads. 

Out in the open, where the sun beat down 
fiercely upon us, there was considerable 
relief from flies and mosquitoes, for in the 
willows, they swarmed upon us in millions. 

Swift had attempted to describe a specially 
bad corner on this second day's drive high 



330 Old Indian Trails 

among the rocks, and had advised our taking 
a low trail, which, though soft, would be 
better than following the dry trail at this 
dangerous point. Not being specially fond of 
wallowing in the mire, our leader, at the parting 
of the ways stuck, to the rock trail. It was a 
more or less unattractive spot, but much more 
dangerous to horses which had 7iot spent prac- 
tically all their lives at trailing than to our 
own seasoned stagers. At the critical point, 
the trail led to the brink of a forty-foot preci- 
pice, where the horse and his burden must 
swing sharply to the left, running the chance 
of miscalculating the room for his pack, 
smashing into the rocks, and being bowled 
over into the abyss below. 

I peered over as we came to it, saw many a 
bleached bone to verify Swift's warning, then 
followed the line of cautious ponies passing 
safely down the hill. 

Out in the open, the trail was bordered with 
raspberries and large black currants; fresh 
beaver cuttings were seen at frequent intervals ; 
flowers familiar and strange were there, and we 
came into camp on Derr Creek just as tired 
as our horses, after having had a very interest- 
ing day's ride. 

Prospectors, from now, on grew numerous 



Bound for Mount Robson 331 

and to us, who were so long accustomed to an 
unconventional garb, quite annoying from the 
"dress-up" standpoint. From a social point 
of view we could have asked nothing more, 
as courtesy, politeness and kindness were 
showered upon us by all we met. 

It was with great curiosity that we started 
on the next drive which would take us over 
the Yellowhead Pass. As the pass is only 
thirty-seven hundred feet high, we found 
McEvoy's statement (that it is hard to tell 
when you cross it), quite correct. On the 
west side a recent fire had swept across the 
fine timber, through whose gaunt standing 
trunks we had our first glimpse of Yellowhead 
Lake, which lies at the base of Yellowhead 
Mountain (9000 feet). To eyes accustomed 
to mountains of higher elevations, these lower 
hills made a rather unimpressive scene. 

As we travelled the north shore of the lake, we 
found it had been fire-swept again and again, 
and the timber being Douglas fir of enormous 
growth, some of us had all we could do to keep 
in our saddles as our horses went careering and 
jumping over the huge fallen trees. 

Just as we sat down to supper that night, 
which was spread on the shore of the lake, 
and in fact right on the trail, the sound of a 



332 Old Indian Trails 

strange horse-bell announced the coming of 
more strangers — a half-breed and a French 
prospector, and they had almost to step over 
our table in order to get past. As they 
camped but a short distance from us, when 
everything was fixed up for the night, Cliief 
and "K." strolled over to see them, leaving 
''M." and me alone in our grandeur. It was 
grand too. Our fire, built on the very edge of 
the glass-like lake, was reflected in the black 
depths yawning beyond us; the wind died 
down; over the water came the faint sound of 
the strangers' horse-bells ; then the weird laugh 
of a loon pierced the darkness with a taunting, 
ridiculing sound as though calling, "Ha-ha! 
Left alone, left alone ! " and in its wake came the 
cry of a coyote, which was answered by two 
or three others on the distant shore. The 
loon laughed again derisively, the firelight 
danced cheerily on the walls of our tent, and 
a few stars peeped down through the black 
boughs of the spruces above our heads, leaving 
us to feel but an infinitesimal part of the 
great whole. 

The morning of the sixteenth was Sunday, 
the signal for rising was not our usual gong, 
but the cry of the coyotes answering one 
another around the lake. By eight o'clock we 



Bound for Mount Robson 333 

were off, passing our neighbours' camp and 
making our way around the lower end of the 
lake. In the first break of the hills beyond 
Conical Mountain, we came upon a muddy, 
bustling stream, the Fraser. Tearing down 
through rocky walls it seemed a perfect mini- 
ature of the great river which the traveller by 
train first sees from the high banks at North 
Bend on the Canadian Pacific Railway. r 

Alternate stretches of fallen timber and 
stony hillsides, Grant Brook, and finally the 
swiftly fiowing Moose River were our portion 
for the day. Similar to the days before, we 
found it a great spot for berries of many 
varieties, the most prevalent being a low-bush 
vaccinium, or blueberry, which grew from ten 
to twelve inches high. The bloom on the black 
fruit was like the blue frost on a plum, and the 
ground for miles was so overgrown with it 
that it had a blue tinge rather than green. 
At specially thick spots, we would stop and 
pluck two or thrpe bushes and refresh our 
parched mouths for the next ten minutes with 
the delicious fruit. 

Saskatoon bushes grew high above our 
heads and, as we passed beneath them, seemed 
to reach forth their graceful boughs and 
offer their long racemes of purple berries 



334 Old Indian Trails 

as a gift to the stranger. The big crimson 
raspberries tempted us to stop, but we nib- 
bled from them all and passed on, pitching 
camp on the banks of Moose River, where, in a 
few minutes, our camping-friends of the night 
before joined us. They dined with us that 
evening, and I question if a stranger stepping 
up suddenly could have told red man from 
white, so sun-burned were we all and so worn 
and weather-beaten our clothes. 

In his broken English, the Frenchman told 
us of seeing our outfit on the Athabaska and 
of signaling us with a rifle-shot as he thought 
probably we were some Indians he was in 
search of; thus unexpectedly, was answered a 
question we had often asked ourselves, "Who 
was it had fired that shot back on the 
Athabaska? " 

The next day's travel around Moose Lake 
would v/ell deserve a veil thrown over its mem- 
ory. Swift had spoken of the lake's wonderful 
beauty, but w^e had seen so many fine lakes 
already in that country that we had not been 
specially impressed with his remarks. As our 
trail friends pulled out of camp ahead of us that 
morning, they informed tis the trail ahead was 
"pretty bad," and it certainly fulfilled our ex- 
pectations. Wc fairly crawled along for an 



Bound for Mount Robson 335 

hour and a half, when a gHnt of silver through 
the trees showed us we were nearing the lake. 
It is a fine stretch of water seven or eight miles 
long, with a colour of milky green, as it is fed 
by the turbulent Fraser. The far shores were a 
soft unbroken mass of forest, a rest to our eyes, 
weary with the charred conditions under foot 
for so many miles. The hills beyond rolled 
away in soft undulations, but at the time, we 
were thinking far more of the length of them 
than of their artistic effect. 

Trail on the north shore there was little or 
none for long stretches; sometimes the ghost 
of one wound round the pebbly shore, then it 
would take a notion to dodge up into the wood, 
wander round a bit up there and return hope- 
lessly to the shore again, only to repeat the 
same performance all over in a few moments. 

Instead of realising the real beauty of that 
charming sheet of water that day, my mind 
was not only on our horses, but on those which 
had gone before and must come after before 
the coming railroad, the Grand Trunk Pacific, 
would be a fact. Many had been sacri- 
ficed, many were still to be sacrificed, on that 
hard, barren bit of trail around the shores of 
beautiful Moose Lake. The sad truth was 
ever present. 



336 Old Indian Trails 

In the hot sun, that lake-shore seemed to 
stretch twenty-seven miles instead of seven, 
and we dragged into camp at four-thirty after 
a strenuous eighteen miles, and one of the 
party was quite ready for bed by seven o'clock. 
I believe there was a magnificent aurora that 
night, but no auroras made any impression 
on my mind' — I had other affairs that took my 
attention. 

The last day's travel to Mount Robson was 
a great improvement on anything we had 
had since leaving the main Athabaska. 

The moment we started, the valley began 
to narrow and close in on the river. At 
places where we could gaze down upon the 
water fighting its way through huge rocks, 
we blessed the steady little feet beneath us 
picking a way so calmly over the treacherous 
trail, for a slip or a stumble meant the river 
two hundred feet below. 

As the trail left the river and settled down 
to winding through the timber once more, 
the family wondered "Where is that old moun- 
tain?" Suddenly Chief called out, "Here she 
is!" and we hurried forward. There "she 
was," sure enough. No doubting the highest 
peak in the Rockies of Canada — she spoke for 
herself. To our weary, sunburnt eyes she 



Bound for Mount Robson 337 

loomed refreshingly up from behind a hill, 
cold, icy, clean-cut, in a sky unclouded and of 
intensest blue. The mountains rising far 
and near were but worthy of the name of hills, 



|ij M \ 


^^ 


i 


gk 




HP 


•^., ''" '""^^ 










W**f, 




^r**' 




m.- 


. '"' 


1 '..,.i^ . 





Mount Robson 



leaving Robson a noble massive vision to the 
pilgrims who had come so far to see her. We 
gazed, and our hearts grew hot within us as on 
every side we saw black tree trunks strewn, 
ghastly reminders of careless, indifferent camp- 
ers of other days. 

Crossing the Grand Fork of the Fraser we 



338 Old Indian Trails 

camped in green timber where, if the feed was 
scarce for our horses, at least there was alovely 
setting for the beautiful mountain. When 
darkness had settled down and bed seemed 
the most wonderful of all inventions, " M.," our 
most enthusiastic star-gazer, called us to see 
an aurora which was throwing ribbons and 
arches with wonderful rapidity across the 
summit of Mount Robson and dyeing her 
snow-fields with a constant change of colour. 
But tired eyes refused to remain open for even 
that wonderful display and I soon crawled out 
of sight, leaving "M.," the aurora and the 
expiring camp-fire to sit it out together. 




On the Fraser 



CHAPTER IX 

THE TETE JAUNE CACHE 

THOUGH Mount Robson had been so long 
our Mecca, now that we were within 
reach of Tete Jaune Cache, it seemed a pity not 
to see that historic point. Who Tete Jaune 
really was, is a myth. A fair-haired Indian, he 
is supposed to have had his cache of furs 
somewhere on the Fraser River. Milton and 
Cheadle say the true cache was at the Grand 
Fork. But being a matter of a hundred years 
ago, and the history of that country being 
largely handed down by word of mouth, few 
of the real facts are obtainable. All our 
knowledge of the present cache in the summer 
of 1908 was, that it was the meeting-point for 

339 



340 Old Indian Trails 

the surveyors of the Grand Trunk Pacific and 
prospectors, that an Indian village was on the 
far side of the river, and that Swift had told us 
that "his friend Mr. Reading lived there and 
that we were not to miss him as he was a fine 
man." Not an especially interesting list of 
items, still it had been a much-talked-of point 
and it seemed foolish not to satisfy the last 
grain of curiosity. 

With inward trepidations, the following day 
"M." and I climbed into our saddles, wonder- 
ing if we were to regret this last drive, if we 
were to taste at last of the wilderness-fruit 
in its rawness, to be frightened to death or 
murdered (tenderfeet to the end!). 

These last twenty miles were a duplication 
of all the annoyances under foot for the past 
five days, and it was late in the afternoon as 
we swung sharply to the right on the river's 
edge, looked across that muddy torrent, saw 
a number of tepees and drying-racks on the 
far side, and heard Chief say: "We are 
coming to the Cache." 

Then "M." and I, with our hearts giving an 
extra jump at the thought of meeting the 
roughs and toughs who were supposed to have 
already poured in here from every direction, 
looked down from a hill on the city of Tete 



The Tete Jaune Cache 341 

Jaune Cache as she was in 1908. What we 
saw was a tiny log shack and a tent pitched 
beside it, both enclosed by a fence, with a few 
spurious efforts to grow a little garden stuff 
just inside the fence; a little beyond was 
another tent. Near the shack stood a terrible- 
looking man clad in rough khaki, his hands in 
his pockets and his eyes glued on the strangers 
with a stony stare; by the fence lounged our 
travelling companions of the day before, who 
had arrived before us, and out from the far tent 
strolled two more nomads with unkempt hair, 
grizzled faces, ragged clothes and moccasins. 
In that quiet village, they had heard our outfit 
coming and the population had turned out to 
see who it was. Strange to say, those who got 
in ahead of us had never thought to mention 
there were women coming behind, so that the 
apparent hostility which froze the blood of the 
two scared ones, was a case of pure astonish- 
ment, and everyone, for an instant, stood dumb 
in his tracks. 

I speak for no one's sentiments but my 
own; but for the time being it seemed to me 
my hour had come. They looked awful, and 
stood so terribly still as we slowly filed by 
them into the open. (It was only later that 
I wondered how much charity and faith might 




u 



(^ 



The Tete Jaune Cache 343 

have been mustered on the spur of the moment 
to welcome us, and reahsed that we were pro- 
bably quite as rough-looking in our travel-worn 
garments as those we rushed to condemn.) 

It was only a momentary pause, and was 
quickly broken by the first terrible party 
mustering a pleasant smile (unmarred by a 
razor for weeks), coming to greet us cordially, 
showing us where our horses could pasture, 
and offering us his own yard as a place to pitch 
our tent. There was n't a tree in it to shelter 
us from the eyes of the curious, so Chief 
politely suggested moving back a little from 
the residential section to a place which our 
host sarcastically explained was "where all 
Indians camped." This was rather un- 
necessary information, for rags, bones, goat- 
hair and hides stared us in the face, and yet 
we chose it in preference to the too close 
association of the city limits. 

Our tents were scarce in place when Chief 
came over to say: "The cordial gentleman 
was Swift's friend, Mr. Reading of Phila- 
delphia, and he 's just brought a five-pound 
trout for you ladies." While eating lunch, 
another long-haired brigand passed our 
camp and in mildest tones said, "Good- 
afternoon, ladies." We began to feel better, 




*«t^*^- 



344 



The Tete Jaune Cache 345 

and deciding that a little water on our 
hands and faces might still further enhance 
the situation, I asked Chief if he thought 
it was quite safe for me to go to the river to 
wash. As he thought it was, I got soap and 
towel together and sauntered down to the 
banks of the Fraser, keeping one eye open to 
run if any of the terrible men showed up. 
Instead, out came the pleasant, khaki-clad 
man; we introduced ourselves, and, in a few 
minutes, found we had dozens of mutual 
friends in Philadelphia, and so the terrors of 
the Cache fell away. 

As Mr. Reading presented his friend 
Mr. Finch I grew still more disgusted with 
myself and my habit, in spite of the many 
lessons I had had, of judging the men of 
the hills by their clothes, little heeding how 
I might be judged by them in return. 
Inviting the two gentlemen to dine with us 
in the evening and help to eat their own 
fish, I continued my journey to the river, 
and there washed away the last troublous 
thought of the Cache. As I bent over the 
water, I heard a gentle splash, and around the 
bend and close by my bath-tub came an 
Indian in his cottonwood canoe. It was a 
pretty picture, and I felt far from home, till 




346 



The Tete Jaune Cache 347 

leaping gracefully from his craft he came 
toward me smiling, holding in his hand a small 
bag of very crude manufacture (at the most 
worth fifty cents) , which he told me I could 
have for the sum of ten dollars. Enough. 
I had still some distance to travel to reach 
the innocent wilderness. 

The following day, August 20th, we lay 
over to rest our horses and ourselves, after 
the hard road we had been travelling so long, 
before returning over the same. Mr. Reading 
had unearthed the ruins of a tiny shack near 
the river, about seven feet by ten ; it must have 
been very old as the logs were spongy and 
rotten, and as we prowled about it among 
nettles as high as our heads, we wondered if 
this could possibly be the original Cache. 
Hardly, it looked too much like work to be of 
Indian manufacture. 

There were the remains of old fire-places 
nearer the river, but these were probably in 
existence in the days of the Canadian Pacific 
Railroad survey, and we walked back to camp 
again leaving it all a conjecture. 

After lunch Mr. Reading visited us and 
invited us all to dinner, and, with our permis- 
sion, he would invite the entire population of 
the town to meet us^ — in other words, the two 



34^ Old Indian Trails 

prospectors who were camped close by. This 
was exciting. In view of the festivities and 
late hours we might keep, we drew down the 
*' bug-nets" and each took a nap, which 
passed away the afternoon nicely, and were 
awakened hearing our host borrowing 
crockery for the feast. 

Being our first and only dinner-party the 
entire summer, costumes might naturally be 
supposed to engross a good deal of thought, 
but that 's the joy of having only a duffel- 
bag,- — there was little to think of. Asking 
''M." what she would do toward gracing 
the festive board, she replied succinctly: 
*'Wash my hands and face, and get a fresh 
leather shoe-string to tie up my back hair." 
For myself, I recollected having a gorgeous 
violet handkerchief with a green border, which 
a kind relative had presented me for camp 
use, and which I had dutifully carried in my 
bag for many hundred miles, awaiting an op- 
portunity to use it. It had never lost its pris- 
tine newness, owing to my dread of startling 
the horses if I ever flashed it on the trail, but 
the time now seemed ripe for bringing it forth. 
Decorated with it, another roimd my neck, 
and a pair of brand-new moccasins, we joined 
our men, fresh from a tussle with the razor 



The Tete Jaune Cache 349 

and a cracked mirror, and strolled down the 
hill to the beat of the dish-pan— the signal 
that all was ready. 

Our host and the two prospectors stood 
smilingly awaiting us at the dining-room — a 
little six by six roof projecting from one end 
of the shack. A real table hewn from logs 
stood beneath, around which ran a continuous 
bench. 

After introductions, the gentlemen all stood 
respectfully around while the ladies, with 
skirts on, attempted to get their feet over 
that bench and under the table. For some 
time we had heard them preparing the meal 
and so curiosity and appetite were both at 
high- water mark. 

It was a delicious meal, for you must 
remember that most of the condiments had 
been packed on horses for hundreds of miles. 
We had fish (just caught that afternoon) , fried 
potatoes, and bacon and beans. Pickles, tea, 
coffee and cocoa were added to the list, and 
some cheese which had seen better days, and 
then they passed the bread and butter. There 
was something a little strange about that bread 
till they explained it was ''sour dough," and I 
was rather glad we had stuck to bannock on 
our trip, which is merely flour and baking- 



350 Old Indian Trails 

powder, while the "sour-dough" is a fermen- 
tation and tastes as though it meant you 
should not forget it. I did not ask for the 
recipe; to have experienced the fact that such 
a concoction existed, was enough. 

We were such a curious little company- 
gathered together in haphazard fashion in so 
far-away a corner of the globe, that, while jest 
and merriment went round, I watched us all, 
myself included, to note what a stranger might 
have thought. His eyes would surely have 
opened at the ease with which the use of a 
butter-knife was dispensed with, to have 
noted that the various courses reposed in their 
original pans, and pots stood on the ground 
awaiting a "long arm" for second helpings; 
that our clothes were badly in need of repair, 
and that the plate w^hich had held our bacon 
and beans and fish must also hold our dessert 
of stewed peaches and tapioca pudding. 

I called "M.'s" attention to the fact that 
when she was asked to have a second cup of tea 
she gazed into her cup and deliberately threw 
the cold remains on the floor behind her, and 
she retaliated by noting that when the dessert 
came round I forgot all my early training and 
peered into the pot saying,- — "What's this 
stuff? " But barring these few lapses, we two 



The Tete Jaune Cache 351 

sat on our log seats and received the courtesy 
of host and guests not to be surpassed in the 
most civilised regions. 

Even Muggins had found the situation not 
to be trifled with; when dishes were pushed 
back empty and heads shook ''no more," and 
the remains were scraped into a little pile for 
him, he refused to touch them till he glanced 
his big brown eyes up at his master and re- 
ceived the permission "All right, go ahead." 

And then we clambered out from the table, 
boxes were found for seats, pipes were lighted, 
and as the curious, not immusical sound of the 
tom-tom came over the water from the village 
on the other side, we realised the Indians were 
having a feast also. Some one spoke again, 
and some one said: "Hush! What is that?" 
"The first jumping of the salmon. They 
should have been here before. Do you hear 
them splash?" We heard. Again we all sat 
listening to the splashing of the visitors ' ' who 
come every year up the Fraser as regularly as 
hay-fever," so our host said. 

Just as we were departing, the other 
guests suggested Klondike lemonade, and, 
from their precious horde, mixed citric acid, 
sugar and ginger, and we drank there in 
the hills to a meeting in civilised lands. 



352 Old Indian Trails 

And I judged from the sentiments of one as 
she raised her tin cup to the toast, that all 
hearts wished the civilised days might never 
come, but rather the toast might have been: 
"Here 's to a life of unnumbered summers in 
the mountains, with stars above by night, 
sunshine and soft winds by day, with the 
music of the waters at our banquet. " Civili- 
sation! How little it means when one has 
tasted the free life of the trail! 




Going Home 



CHAPTER X 



GOING HOME 



T^HE next day, loaded with mail and mes- 
-'• sages, we said good-bye to our new 
friends and groaned inwardly at the thought 
of the miles of rough travel in store till we 
reached the Athabaska shores again, where on 
our course southward, there would be better 
footing and better feed for our horses. 

A constantly increasing volume of smoke, 
drifting from the south , settled the scenery for 
the first day, and downpours of rain the next 
two finished the smoke, the scenery, and 
everything else. For miles we rode along in 
oil-skins, our hats at proper angles to shut off 
as much as possible the uncomfortable little 

23 353 



354 Old Indian Trails 

cold rivers which seemed to find their way- 
down the back of our necks, and we reached 
camp only to spend the afternoon drying 
things out before a huge fire. 

The long, dreaded drive round Moose Lake 
began, however, in sunshine and we congratu- 
lated ourselves. But the day was not done. 
As we neared the upper end of the lake, a 
glimpse through the thick forest showed an 
inky blackness in the sky in the far distance 
ahead, and we went scurrying along to get out 
of the thick timber before the storm might 
strike us. Whoops and yells from the rear 
made everybody hustle; no time to mince or 
loiter over logs- — they were taken at a bound. 
All was going well, every one was sailing along 
nicely, when that spoiled, greedy Nibs spied a 
specially nice bit of grass just beyond a high 
log. Nobody's fault but his rider's; over he 
skipped, swerved to the left to get it, and 
jammed her between an unyielding tree and 
the saddle. The pain was excruciating; the 
result lasted for a year after, but at the time, 
a distant mutter of thunder, the ominous 
silence and pause which come before a storm, 
the close proximity of the dead, standing 
timber, put self out of mind. Reaching open 
ground, we donned the now ragged slickers. 



Going Home 355 

Our horses knew what was coming as well as 
we. They looked anxiously around having 
probably heard the wind before we did, or per- 
haps their acute ears had caught the sound of 
some distant crashing tree. Nibs shivered a 
little, as the wind shrieked through the trees 
as through the rigging of a ship in a gale at 
sea. I decided that I preferred my own legs 
to those of my pony, and so got down. We 
had never faced a gale like this together before 
and I was mean enough to doubt my little 
friend. With a wild blast the storm struck 
us, first pelting us with large hailstones, then 
following them up with a drenching rain. 
The poor defenceless horses refused to face 
such a storm, and turned their backs upon it. 
With the first onslaught of wind, a dead tree 
fell with a bang within twenty yards of the 
outfit; fifty yards away the huge trees swayed, 
rocked, bent, then fell like a volley of mus- 
ketry — fully two hundred of them. Nibs 
shuddered, and I shuddered too as it was all 
too close to be comfortable. The fusilade 
stopped as quickly as it began, the wind fell, 
the rain poured down in torrents, the light- 
ning played and leapt across the summits of 
the hills towards which we were travelling, and 
the awful crashes of thunder left nothing to be 



35^ Old Indian Trails 

desired in the way of effect. No, it was not 
nice and we did n't enjoy it one bit. 

Then came the order to advance- — to ad- 
vance into the very heart of that recent 
artillery-ground, and off we started, inwardly 
most reluctant. For once, in spite of the 
injured member, I preferred my own loco- 
motives to those of my horse, and following 
the leader, we were soon swinging around 
and jumping over the freshly fallen trees. 
Nobody needed urging, every horse knew 
the danger as well as ourselves, not a tree 
was cut, and only fear helped some of the 
packs to clear the debris without an ac- 
cident. We hurried across Moose River into 
our old camp with some one calling, "Here 
we are again all wet and happy ! ' ' Quite true ; 
for with tents up and a roaring fire our troubles 
were soon drowned with a cup of hot tea, and 
clothes were soon dried before a huge blaze. 
The injured leg was bound in cold compresses, 
mental note was taken that the bone might 
be injured, but as there was n't a doctor within 
three weeks' travel, there was n't much use in 
adding worry to the already annoying pain. 

Often and often have I been asked, "What 
do you do when taken ill on the trail with no 
doctor? " This being our only accident in five 



Going Home 357 

years, I can only say: ''Do without, and trust 
to the healthy life to keep things straight." 
For three weeks the leg was slung in a rope 
from the horn of the saddle, its progress kindly 
inquired for each day by the family, and in the 
night, when blankets pressed upon it, fretted 
over by its owner. Like all other worries, it 
was wasted energy, and it got well when it 
got ready. 

At the time of our passing, there was cer- 
tainly no newspaper published in the Moose 
Lake district, nor, to my knowledge, at present 
writing, yet two years after that rather un- 
comfortable storm, a passing stranger re- 
marked, "So you are one of those caught 
in the big storm of 1908 on Moose Lake." 
Talk of walls having ears! For universal 
knowledge of every one on the trail, the 
wilderness takes the palm. 

August the 30th found "M." and me 
hurrying off ahead of the outfit to make 
a "sachez" at Henry House, see that his- 
toric point, and then join our party before 
we once more arrived at Swift's hospitable 
home. Few would think to call a point his- 
toric with only a hundred years resting upon 
its shoulders, but in this great land of Canada, 
where for ages the valleys have been sleeping, 



358 Old Indian Trails 

where only the birds sing, and the Indian, 
moose, and elk have passed to wake her, one 
hundred years is quite a little time to be able 
to trace the first coming of the outer world. 
There was little there to satisfy our curiosity. 
Two chimneys, built of stone and clay, rapidly 
returning to their original constituency, stood 
on the original site, but perhaps were the re- 
mains of what was known as Athabaska Depot, 
used as a base for supplies when the Canadian 
Pacific Railway was surveying the Yellowhead 
country many years ago. Embankments 
marked the traders' home or surveyors' winter 
quarters. The timber around had been 
cleared away for a considerable distance to 
expose the treacherous Indian on his approach, 
or for fuel, or building purposes, perhaps. 

We left it in its silence by the river where in 
the old days, the guardians of the fort could 
see for miles the coming or departing guests, 
joined our party as they went by, and in fifteen 
minutes were once more in camp at Swift's, 
eating fresh eggs that night for supper. It 
seemed almost disloyal to the bacon to enjoy 
those eggs so much, for bacon is about the 
only food on the trail of which one never grows 
really tired. Trout palled till w^e wanted no 
more, there came a time when grouse failed 



Going Home 359 

to enlist any enthusiasm, but bacon on the 
trail is bacon to the end, — ^blessed be the man 
who invented bacon! 

In the evening we went to Swift's home 
to return sundry calls and obtain any drifting 
news, and spent a rather interesting time. 
The following morning, "all set," we said, 
''Good-bye; will see you when the first 
Grand Trunk Pacific train comes through," 
and passed on, knowing we were coming to 
the beginning of the end. As we crossed 
the Athabaska, we realised that next time 
we came that way our horses would not 
have to swim for it, all would be made easy 
with trains and bridges; that the hideous 
march of progress, so awful to those who 
love the real wilderness, was sweeping rapidly 
over the land and would wipe out all trail 
troubles. 

With the passing of each day, we said a 
long farewell to, some peak, some gorge, 
or lake. Storms swept across our paths, 
snows blinded us on the high passes, and 
the autumn colours gave the warning, "Win- 
ter will soon be here"; nothing, however, 
staunched the inward cry, "The play-days 
are dying one by one!" 

One night they piled the logs higher and yet 



36o 



Old Indian Trails 



higher on the camp-fire at our door. The 
night was cold and frosty. Up throtigh the 
black spruces, whose boughs were tipped with 
the crimson glare, we gazed on the stars twink- 
ling above. Except for the distant tinkle of 
the horse-bell, and the snapping of the fire, 
there was no sound. Each one of our little 
household was busy with his own thoughts. 
Then through the silence of the forest there 
came a cry; it sounded again, a long-drawn 
weary note. I looked at Chief, — "What is 
it?" "Don't you know? 'T is the night 
train signaling at Laggan. " The last days 
play was done! 







Where Old Friends Part 




^ 



pson'a Peak Souihiah 

[he Thumb Call 

m Waligne Mt. 
^Mt.Warren 



Outline Sap of 

SECTION OP CANiDIAN 
ROCKY MOUXTIINS. 

VisiUid duriugr L907 and 1908. 

Soorees at Itelarmstloa 

J. McEvoy's Survey Map of 1900. 

Or. J Naiman Collie's Sketch Map, 

eCALE 24 MilLES TO H40H. 



Mt.balhou9le- 




OutUne Hap of 

SllCTION OF CANlDIAJi 
ROCKY MOUWTIKS. 

visited daring 1907 and 190S. 

SoareM of Difomatloa 

1. McEvoy'i Surtgy Map ol 1800. 

Dr. J Noxmsn Collie'i Skolob Ml«. 

eOALE 24 MILES TO (NOH. 




INDEX 



Abraham, Silas, 175, 179 
Alberta, Mount, 55, 82, 84 
Alexandra, Mount, 112, 124 
Allen, 4 

Among the Stoney Indians, 1 76 
Athabaska, Mount, 50, 52, 

222 
Athabaska River, 13, 62, 84, 

97, 288 

Baker Pass, 192 

Banff, I 

Barnes, E., 176 

Beacon, The, 166 

Bear, 76, 124, 152 

Bear Creek, 32, 38 

Bear Creek Canyon, 218 

Beaver, 242, 246 

Beaver, Sampson, 175, 179 

Beavertail Creek, 192 

"Big Hill," The, 220 

Blaeberry River, 191 

Bow Lake, 28, 212 

Bow Park, 25 

Bow Pass, 28, 30, 211 

Bow River, 27 

Bow Valley, 17, 22 

Erazeau Lake, 138, 229 

Brazeau Mountain, 138 

Brazeau River, 136 

Brown, Mount, 63, 293 

Bryce, Mount, 126 



Buffalo Prairies, 294 
Burnt Tent Camp, 72 
Bush River, no 
Bush Valley, 126 

Calgary, 21 

Canadian Pacific Railroad, 12, 

192, 334 

Caribou, 80, 82 
Cataract Creek, 47, 164 
Cataract Pass, 150, 155 
Chaba Imne (Beaver Lake), 

133. 241 
Chaba River, 69 
Coleman, Dr. A. P., 5, 55, 63, 

67, loi, 133, 138, 231, 2C3, 

293. 294 
Coleman, L. Q., 102 
Coleman, Mount, 47, 166 
Collie, Dr. J. Norman, 5, 46, 

50, 55- 65, 84, 94, 96, no, 

126 191 
Collie, Mount, 198 
Columbia ice-fields, 82, 103, 

no, 127 
Columbia, Mount, 75, 82, 117, 

127, 166 
Columbia Valley, 77 
Committee's Punch-bowl, 293 
Conical Mountain, 334 
Continental Divide, no 
Coyotes, 312 



361 



362 



Index 



Crees, 80 
Crow-foot Glacier, 28 

Derr Creek, 330 

Descending a twenty-foot 

rock bluff, 306 
Diadem, Mount, 55 
Diadem Creek, 94 
Douglas, David, 293 
Douglas Peak, 55 

"Edward VII." Mountain, 84 
Endless Chain, 60, 92, 288 

Fay, Prof. C. E., 5 

Field, 2, 192, 199 

Fire on the Endless Chain, 
70 

First Swim on the Saskatche- 
wan, 196 

Flowers, 245, 249; Caltha lepto- 
sepala, 212; Claytonia lance- 
olata (Spring Beauties), 30; 
Erythronium grandiflorum 
(Snow Lily), 30, 124; Phyl- 
lodoce empetriformis (Red 
Heather), Phyllodoce glan- 
dulifiora (Greenish-White 
Heather), Cassiope Merten- 
siana (White Heather), 124; 
Pulsatilla occidentalis (West- 
ern Anemone), 237; Trol- 
lius albiflorus (W e s t c r n 
Globe-flower), 124, 212, 237; 
Vetches, 249, 252; Viola 
sempervirens (Low Yellow 
Violet), 30 

Food-stuffs for the trail, 10, 
129, 213, 285, 323; bannock, 
32 ; cabbage, l l ; evaporated 



milk, 12; dried eggs, 12; 

dried spinach, 17; granu- 

lose, 12; pinole, 205 
Forbes, Mount, 189, 215 
Fortress Lake, 55, 63, 65, loi 
Fortress Mountain, 66 
Fossils, 222 

"Fourth-of-July, " 52, 235 
Fox on Wilcox Pass, 97 
Frances Louise, 175 
Frazer River, 334, 340 
Freshfield Group, 41 
Fruits, 92, 334 

Gable Peak, 112 
Game, 6, 82, 97, 147, 152, 264 
Gap, The, 198 
Glacier, 2 
Glacier Lake, 217 
Goat, 31, 58, 264 
"Golden Plains of the Saskat- 
chewan," 164 
Grand Fork, 338, 340 
Grand Trunk Pacific Railroad, 

336, 341- 359 
Grant Brook, 334 
"Graveyard Camp," 46, 103, 

132 

Habel, Dr. Jean, 55, 63, 75, 80 
Habel, Mount, 198 
Hardisty, Mount, 292 
Hector Lake, 28 
Hector, Sir James, 191 
Henr3^ Alexander, Jr., 191 
Henry House, 310, 327, 357 
"Hidden Mountain," 199 
"H. M. S. C/za&a," 248, 254 
Hooker, Mount, 63, 293 
Howsc Pass, 190 



Index 



363 



Indians, 133, 174, 176 

Jasper House, 190 
Jonas Pass, 150 

Kadoona Mountain, 172 
Kadoona Tinda, 191 
Kootenai Indians, 190 
Kootenai Plains, 166, 172, 191 

Laggan, 20 

Louise, Lake, 2, 3, 6, 

Lyell, Mount, in, 117, 188 

Maligna Gorge, 315 
Maligne Lake, 240 
Maligne Mountain, 252 
Maligne Pass, 237 
Maligne River, 263, 308 
Maligne Valley, 237 
Mary Vaux, Mount, 256 
Match-stick Camp, 91 
McArthur, Lake, 3 
McEvoy 's Government Report , 

307- 332 
Middle Fork, 190 
Miette River, 294, 316, 328 
Milton and Cheadle, 340 
Moberly, John, 317, 327 
Moose Lake, 335, 354 
Moose River, 334, 356 
Moraine Lake, 3 
Mosquitoes of the Athabaska, 

65, 260, 328 
Mosquitoes of the Saskatche- 
wan, 42 
Mummery, Mount, 195 
Murchison, Mount, 41, 190, 

216 
Muskeg, 23, 93, 103 



Nashan-esen Lake, 122 
Nashan-esen River, 46, 49, 103, 

109 
Nigel Creek, 102 
Nigel Pass, 134, 229 
Nigel Peak, 135 
North Fork, 41, 43, 102, 183, 

186, 215 

O'Hara, Lake, 3 
Outram, Rev. James, 5, 82, 1 10, 
185 

Panther Falls, 50 
Parker, Camp, 100, 134, 222 
Paul Beaver, 168 
Peyto, Bill, 57, 191 
Peyto Lake, 30 
Pinto Lake, 47, 158 
Pinto Pass, 48, 159 
Pioneer's Home, — Swift, 323 
Pipestone Trail, 173 
Pobokton Pass, 232 
Pobokton Valley, 283 
Porcupines, 26, 227 
Ptarmigan Valley, 3, 8 
Pyramid Peak, 32, 41, 50, 216 

Quicksand, 59, 92 
Quincy, Mount, 66 

Rabbit Creek, 169 
Raft building, 245, 267 
Reading, Franklin, 341, 344 
Robson, Mount, 293, 327, 2)i7 
Rock-slides, 60 

Sampson's map, 183, 233, 250 
Sampson's Narrows, 251, 256 
Sang-sangen Creek, 96 
Sarbach, Mount, 216 



364 



Index 



Saskatchewan Mountain, 50, 

97. 124. 135 

Saskatchewan Plains, 158 
Saskatchewan River, 15, 36, 

38, 164, 213 
Sheep, 59, 147 
Sheep Camp, 56, 97 
Simpson, Jim, 106, 109, 134, 

162, 186 
Snow-bHnd eyes, 155 
Strawberries, wild, 92 
Stuttfield, Hugh E. M., 5, 46, 

96, no, 191 
Stuttfield, Mount, 82, 95 
Summit of Howse Pass, 247 
Sun Wapta Gorge, 60 
Sun Wapta River, 57, 60, 91, 

94, 286, 
Sun Wapta Valley, 56 
Survey, Mount, 190 
"Swift," 307, 316, 341, 357 
Swimming the Athabaska, 320 
Swimming the Saskatchewan, 

170, 218 

Tangle Creek, 56, 97 

Tents, Egyptian sail-cloth, 17; 

sequel of the tents, 73 
Tepee Camp, 229 
Tete Jaune, 340 
Tete Jaune Cache, 340 



Thompson, C. S., 5, no 
Thompson Pass, no, 118, 123, 
126 

Thumb, The, 251 

Twins, The, Mountains, 55, 128 

Unwin, Mount, 250 

Valley of the Lakes, 186 

Warren, Mount, 252 
Washing blankets, 217 
Watchman's Peak, 124 
West Branch of the Atha- 
baska, 78 
West Branch of the North- 
Fork, 46, 102 
Whirlpool River, 293 
Wilcox, W. D., 4, 50, 63 
Wilcox Pass, 50, 54, 97 
Wilcox Peak, 52, 98 
Wild-fowl Lake, 32 
Wilson, Mount, 41, 43, 50, 97, 

190 
Wilson, Tom, 34, 158, 176 
WooUey, Mr. H., 5, 55, 82, 95 
Woolley, Mount, 55, 82, 95 

"Yahe-Weha," 176 
Yellowhead Lake, 332 
Yellowhead Pass, 190, 294, 316, 

332 
Yoho Valley, 2, 6, 19S 



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